The Last Miss Bennet
by SwordSwallower17
Summary: At 23, Mary Bennet is the last unmarried young lady at Longbourn. When her friend Lady Adlam invites Mary to spend the Season at her fashionable Town-house, Mrs. Bennet is thrilled that her difficult daughter will finally have access to wealthy lords and elegant parties, but Mary is not so ecstatic at the prospect. Sequel to "The Miss Bennets Set Forth" & "Miss de Bourgh in Bath."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note**: Well, here it is! This is the third part in my Pride & Prejudice inspired series (?). This story follows _The Miss Bennets Set Forth_, and unlike its predecessor, may require some prior reading to make total sense (although I think you should be able to get away with it if you haven't read anything else of mine). I wrote the first story in this series, _Miss de Bourgh in Bath_, half on a whim and half as an exercise to battle my writer's block, and I never expected it to go anywhere. Thank you to everyone who has read _Miss de Bourgh_ and _The Miss Be__nnets_, and I hope this third piece makes all of you happy!

I always feel like I need to post some kind of "my life is crazy" disclaimer on these things, so here goes: I'm graduating from grad school next May and am in the process of job/apartment hunting, plus trying to balance a social life with schoolwork, student org involvement and two jobs, so it's very probable that a couple updates might be long in coming. I always feel SO super guilty about those, so please just know that even if I'm silent for weeks (or months?!), I am still working on it! I really love writing these stories—it's just that everything else seems to get in the way. I do plot out my stories beforehand so I'll try my best to avoid leaving you hanging. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

* * *

_12 October 1801  
Willow Cottage  
Gossenbury_

_My dear Mary,_

_I know you have spent nearly twenty-three years in the countryside, and have therefore seen your share of fields being harvested, and leaves turning colors, and so on. But this is the first autumn I have ever spent out of a city, and so you must forgive me my wonder at the beauty of the season. This is the busiest I have ever seen little Gossenbury, as the farmers hurry to finish their harvest—I have treated three broken bones among the farming families this week alone._

_I wonder if that will be the only sort of injury which plagues this fine autumn; Sir Edmond, up at the Hall, has already had two large parties down to shoot. It seems as though that is the only subject upon the minds of our local gentry. Having never partaken of the sport, I can only smile and shrug when they ask me whether I prefer pheasant or grouse, and indeed press me with far more detailed questions full of terms which I do not understand in the slightest. I imagine it does not do my standing here any good, to appear as an untutored city-dweller, but fortunately everyone seems more amused than offended by my blank looks._

_Sporting ignorance aside, I cannot believe it is only four months since I came to Gossenbury. Every house, every path, every face is as familiar to me as any in Bath. I am greeted wherever I go, and have now learned enough names of places and people to appear tolerably local; and what's more, Mary, I do feel as if this is where I ought to be. I am kept busier than I ever was in Bath (in fact I should rather like to have an assistant)—not only with broken bones and Sir Edmond's gout, but with the sorts of illnesses and injuries which might, if not for medical intervention, prove terrible. I am glad to be here; and I think, or at least I hope, that the people of Gossenbury are glad to have me here. But that may be all politeness on their part._

_I hope your sisters and their children are well; it seems to me that Mrs. Bingley in particular must have her hands full just now. My good wishes of course to your mother and father, and everyone else who is dear to you in Meryton. I am sure your autumn is as lovely as ours, and so I wish you plenty of time to walk and sit outdoors and enjoy it. I eagerly await your next letter, and even more eagerly await the time, whenever that may be, when we can sit and speak together as we used to in Bath. Give my regards to your family, and I shall give yours to mine._

_Yours,_

_Robert ("Doctor," as everyone calls me here)_

* * *

As could only be expected, the marriage of a handsome young viscount, of venerable family and excellent fortune, who had been for some time regarded as one of Society's more eligible bachelors, to the daughter of a physician, was cause for a certain amount of censure.

The matter was only made worse by the fact that the new viscountess was exceedingly pretty. For, as it happens, the sort of people who naturally regard such marriages with scorn and suspicion are often also the sort of people who cannot see a beautiful woman without despising her for daring to be prettier than themselves, or their daughters, or their sisters, or any other young ladies toward whom they are more kindly disposed.

Indeed, upon the arrival of Lord Adlam and his young bride in Town for their first Season together, there were uncharitable whispers that Lady Adlam had somehow entrapped the viscount, or otherwise used the unfair advantages of her face and figure to secure her new position (advantages which, in a lady of greater birth and fortune, would not have been considered "unfair" at all). Several families prepared not to receive her, while others pointedly avoided making the usual welcoming calls to Breezewood House, the Adlams' London residence. That these families each boasted young ladies who had, themselves, once dreamed of being the new viscountess, need not be remarked upon.

Yet, to the shock of these Societal stalwarts, and probably to the lady herself, Lady Adlam was before long welcomed into a great many of the less conservative drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the city. That she had the audacity to be not only lovely, but also extremely well-married (particularly for one of _her_ rank, which was no rank at all) and now very rich, was overlooked by the fact of her also being exceedingly amiable.

The lady's manners lacked London sophistication, but nonetheless bespoke a certain grace; and after a few missteps and misjudgments, she began to learn the art of managing a household much larger and more fashionable than the one from which she had come. Had the viscountess been less agreeable, her mistakes would have been less forgivable, and Lord Adlam's devotion to her—so plain to see—would have been nothing short of pathetic; but, to the surprise and satisfaction of almost everybody, her Ladyship appeared to love her husband far more than she loved his wealth or title.

The viscount's three sisters had, as was only natural, regarded her Ladyship's entrance into the family circle with a certain degree of trepidation, for the sudden acquirement of wealth and title often has a most unfortunate effect. Upon closer inspection, however, the Honorable Miss Adlams were pleased to find that the young viscountess possessed neither the vulgarity which, in their minds, was too often the defect of the untitled classes, nor the petty avarice which was too often the defect of the newly wealthy.

Lady Adlam was not, as the Miss Adlams had feared, a rival for the fortune and position which they had so long enjoyed. She evinced no desire to abuse her precedence over them as lady of the house, nor to banish them to the country to die as old maids. They were delighted to find in their new sister-in-law a kind friend, whom they all agreed they could very well grow to love as a sister, unthinkable as it would have been to them not long ago.

And so, with the blessings of her husband's family and an ever-growing assemblage of friends and connections (though she was not without her detractors, who still resented her presence at Almacks and the Palace and all of the other fashionable places), Lady Adlam, the former Miss Rosamond Hart of Hart House, Bath, was soon quite nicely established in Society, despite all odds to the contrary.

But this is not her story.

A little more than three years after Miss Hart's marriage and subsequent debut as Lady Adlam; a little less time after the marriage of Miss Katherine Bennet to Mr. Oliver Finch of Larkhall; just a few months after the graduation of Mr. Robert Hart, now _Dr. _Robert Hart, from his studies at St. Thomas's in London, and his relocation to a village in Oxfordshire; the passage of time found Miss Mary Bennet much the same as she had always been, though a little older and perhaps a very little wiser, comfortably ensconced at home in Hertfordshire.

Mary, the last of her sisters living at home, was possessed of the sort of temperament which can readily find useful employment for idle hands. Her days at Longbourn were taken up with the same chores which had been hers since she was a child; when she had completed them, she practiced for hours upon the family pianoforte, which was old and battered but still serviceable; when her parents insisted upon quiet, she set out to walk along the nearby paths and roads, often carrying a book along with her in case she should find a pleasant place to sit; and when it was too intemperate to walk or sit out of doors, she read her books, and wrote letters. It was a quiet life, and a plain one, but Mary prized it.

Of late, however, many of these solitary pleasures had been supplanted by long visits at nearby Netherfield Park. There she found plenty to occupy her, for as we join Mary Bennet on a crisp day in October, her sister Jane Bingley is the doting mother of two twin boys, and is expecting a third child, with the time of her confinement less than a month away. Mary, being a devoted sister, had made a habit of spending a great deal of time amusing the young Bingleys in order to allow their mother time to rest, and their father time to oversee the preparations and alterations to the home which heralded the coming event.

It was not only sisterly duty which drove Mary to take charge of her young nephews. She was fond of the boys themselves, of course, for though she was not naturally disposed to like children, she _was_ their aunt; but of late there had been something else underlying her natural affection for them. There was some warmth that she felt, which she could not quite explain, as she took them for walks about the gardens, or watched little Charles chasing birds across the lawn, or sat with little Edward in her lap as she recited the nursery rhymes she could remember from her own infancy.

It pleased her, to see her nephews—now just over three years old—growing into sturdy young boys. It was true that they often exhausted her, or frustrated her, or irritated her; but just as often she found them inexplicably charming, and there was sometimes a strange tug in her breast when she watched her brother-in-law scoop a child up under each arm, and carry them laughing up to the playroom where their nurse waited, scolding them all the while for bedeviling their Aunt Mary.

"You really are excessively good with them," Charles Bingley (the elder) remarked cheerfully, on more than one occasion; and Jane, if she was nearby, always smiled.

"You are so patient, Mary," she would say, pressing Mary's hand gratefully, "and it is a blessing to have you here. They so enjoy your company."

This was high praise to Mary's ears, for she had never considered her disposition particularly agreeable to the company of young children.

And so this was the situation of Mary Bennet, nearly four years after her first journey to Bath: she was twenty-two years old, and unmarried, but with at least one good prospect; a dutiful daughter and sister; an affectionate aunt; a faithful correspondent; a reader of books; a student of music; a lover of autumn in the countryside. These facts satisfied her a great deal.

Unfortunately, her mother was not so satisfied.

As the mother of five daughters, Mrs. Bennet could not but congratulate herself for, as she imagined it, having successfully married off four of them. (That most of these marriages had had nothing to do with her, and that indeed a great deal of trouble might have been avoided if she had not been involved at all, never occured to her.) Yet the good lady was determined to see _all_ of her daughters married, and so Mary's lack of suitors, especially as she grew older, was a thorn in her side. It did not help that Mary was the least handsome, and the least amiable, of all the Bennet sisters; certainly, if one of them must end up as an old maid, she would be the likeliest choice—but Mrs. Bennet refused to allow such a thing to happen.

She had had some hopes of young Dr. Robert Hart when they were in Bath—he had been Mr. Robert Hart then—for he and Mary had swiftly established a remarkably intimate friendship, and had seemed much in each others' confidence, which was a great comfort to her as Mary had never before seemed at all interested in any gentleman. Indeed, there was even a time when she had believed them actually engaged, and had (imprudently, she saw now) boasted of the fact to her friends and acquaintances; but in the end it had come to nothing. Mary had insisted that there was no engagement, and Mr. Hart had never made any further advance, and they had left Bath defeated; not even the reunion of Mary and Mr. Hart at the wedding of his twin sister had been enough to fan the flames.

(Mrs. Bennet was not to know, of course, that Mary and Robert had in fact come to an understanding in Bath: that they preferred each other to anybody else, and planned to marry someday, but were, at that time, both unready for marriage, and so were best as friends until they both felt otherwise. It was not an engagement, or even a formal attachment—though there had been talk of _love_, and even an unexpected kiss exchanged, which still made Mary blush to think of—but it suited both of them exceedingly well. This was the good prospect which was earlier referred to, and in which Mary had full confidence of an eventual result.)

And so Mrs. Bennet, who had been so disappointed with Mary's failure to secure Mr. Hart, had sighed heavily and taken up again the work of husband-hunting.

"One cannot conduct a courtship through the post," she snapped, to Mary's protests that she was perfectly happy writing to Robert (via his sister, Rosamond Adlam) and could not imagine liking anyone better than she liked him. "We cannot expect anything of Robert Hart, my dear, and you must stop pining for him."

This was not exactly what Mary was doing, but Mrs. Bennet had no head for subtleties.

The past few years, therefore, had been spent shuttling an unwilling Mary to the local balls and assemblies and gatherings, and insisting that the Longbourn household call immediately upon every new family in the neighborhood, and picking through the acquaintance of all her friends in hopes of finding someone suitable. And when it could be arranged, Mary was sent to stay with her sister Elizabeth Darcy, in hopes that the Pemberley neighborhood might produce some further prospects (though Mrs. Bennet suspected that Lizzie was less zealous than herself in her efforts to find Mary a husband).

Yet it was to no avail. Mary refused to be pleased with any of Mrs. Bennet's choices, for she had already made her own. At any rate, the gentlemen Mrs. Bennet found suitable were, as a rule, more to Mrs. Bennet's taste than Mary's: they were all more handsome than clever, and had little interest in books or music, and were anyway usually more engrossed by the neighborhood's prettier faces and figures, of which there were plenty, than by plain, prickly Mary Bennet. With each new posting of the banns, Mrs. Bennet fumed.

Fortunately for Mary, Meryton was not a particularly populous town, and there were fewer eligible gentlemen there than Mrs. Bennet would have liked. Even more fortunately, Mrs. Bennet's matrimonial designs were disturbed in November of the year 1800, when Jane's time came upon her and all other concerns immediately fell by the wayside.

To the delight of everybody concerned, Jane Bingley gave birth to a healthy and charming little girl, who was named Emma, and who immediately won the hearts of everyone who saw her. Even Mr. Bingley's sisters, who did not often find that it suited them to spend time at their brother's country house, came from Town to see her. And though Miss Bingley shrieked when baby Emma, squirming in her arms, knocked the brooch from her gown, and though Mrs. Hurst delivered young Edward a very scathing rebuke when he accidentally trod upon her silk hem and tore it—in spite of these small misfortunes, the elegant aunts declared themselves quite in love with the little creature, and could not believe how strongly she resembled the Bingley side of the family.

After Emma's birth, Mary continued to spend as much time at Netherfield as she could. Jane was glad of it, for Emma, though certainly less demanding than the twins had been in their infancy, nonetheless required a great deal of care and attention, and she did not want to indulge in that habit which many wealthy young mothers have, of relying too much upon nurses and governesses. Mary's visits, therefore, provided a welcome respite from the strains of mothering three small children; and even the nurse who tended to the twins was glad to have time to herself. For her part, Mary was pleased to entertain her nephews when she could, for it made her feel useful.

Thus passed November, cold and frosty. December brought with it sprinklings of snow which delighted the boys, and sent them racing noisily into the garden, bundled in scarves and hats and mittens and coats and cloaks and any other clothing which Mary and the nurse managed to force upon them before they dashed out of reach.

Christmastide at Longbourn, with a Christmas Eve dinner at Netherfield, was comfortable, though there was some unspoken disappointment that they did not go to Pemberley as usual. (Jane was not yet recovered enough for much travel). But it was the first Christmas which the twins were old enough to enjoy, and the family spent long hours gathered about the Yule log, telling stories and singing songs—Mary, to her delight, was asked to accompany them upon the Netherfield pianoforte—and of course feasting upon the holiday bounty. As a young girl, Mary had never much liked the constant noise produced by her four sisters; but of late she had, increasingly, begun to find Longbourn rather quiet, and was glad to have the children by to shout and laugh.

And soon the year turned to 1801; and though it was a new year and still quite a new decade and still near the beginning of a new century, when Mary awoke the next morning, she did not feel much different at all.

* * *

"Mary!" Mrs. Bennet trilled, bustling into the sitting-room, "Mary, the post has come, and you have a letter. 'Viscountess Adlam, Breezewood House, London'—how well that sounds! And what a fine seal!"

Mary, who was not particularly interested in Lady Adlam's seal, took the letter from her mother's hand without comment; she greatly looked forward to these communications from her friend, not only due to her affection for the viscountess but because Rosamond's letters also usually contained a letter from Robert, which of course he could not send directly to Mary, as both were young and unmarried. Rosamond, to her credit, did not appear to mind her role as conduit.

Mrs. Bennet took the chair by the fireside, admiring aloud the elegance of her Ladyship's handwriting. Though she had liked Rosamond perfectly well as the daughter of a respected physician, the young lady's elevation to the rank of viscountess had inspired Mrs. Bennet to new heights of fondness and admiration, as well as an eagerness to mention the connection to everyone; for how many of Lady Lucas's daughters, or indeed any of the other girls in Meryton, could count a lady of the peerage among their most particular friends?

There was a little silence, on Mary's part, as she read the letter. Mrs. Bennet continued to remark upon Lady Adlam's fine handwriting, and the clearness of the direction, and the fineness of the seal, and everything else she could think of. At length, however, she too fell silent. Mary was still reading, or at least staring at the letter.

"Well, my love," Mrs. Bennet said at last, impatient, "what does she say?"

Mary looked up. "She wishes for me to join her in London, for the Season."

Mrs. Bennet was struck dumb, her eyes wide and shining. Her speechlessness lasted only a moment, however, for in the next she gave a loud squeal, and clasped her hands.

"How generous!" she cried. "How kind! It is good to know that some people may gain wealth and title, and yet not forget their humbler friends; how good she is! You must be sure to thank her very kindly, my love—very kindly indeed, for she does you a great favor here. A Season in London! None of your sisters were ever so fortunate, not until after they were married, and then it is not the same. How you will enjoy yourself! Think only of the balls and the parties, and visiting all the best shops, and meeting so many new people!"

"Mamma, it is not sure that Papa will let me go," Mary protested. In truth, she was not certain that she even _wished_ to go. She was very comfortable at Longbourn, and London…London, she knew, was different. It was large, and crowded, and busy, and noisy, and fashionable—even more so than Bath had been. She would not fit in there. Despite all the pleasure which Rosamond's company would bring her, she would not enjoy herself.

Rosamond, to her credit, was not unaware of her friend's distaste for city life. _I know you can have no wish to join us here in Town, my dear Mary,_ she had written,_ for you should find much to despise in the customs of the Season, as must any sensible person. Yet it has been too long since I have seen you, and as the Darcys are said to arrive here in March, I thought perhaps you might be persuaded to humor me, and leave Longbourn at least for a little while in hopes of delighting your friends and family. We need not spend every night in a ballroom: there are a great many excellent concerts to attend, and fine bookshops upon every corner, and wonderful plays in all the best theatres. Breezewood is equipped with a beautiful pianoforte, upon which you are welcome to play as much as you like, so that you should not fall out of practice._

_And though I am not hinting that it is any particular inducement—I know you too well for that—nonetheless I should like to tell you that Robert has said he may come to stay for a little while, sometime in March or April, if his work will allow him. I have missed you a great deal, my dear Mary, and so has my brother (though he would not like me to tell you so). It seems an age since we were all together. …_

There was no letter from Robert himself.

"Of course your father will let you go," Mrs. Bennet insisted, narrowing her eyes. "He could not deny his own daughter a Season in London, when it is so generously offered! To do so, I imagine, would be a grave insult to the viscount _and_ the viscountess, and we cannot afford to have enemies in the peerage!"

Mary rolled her eyes. She was certain that, however disappointed Rosamond might be at a refusal, it would not result in their acquiring enemies in the peerage.

"And not only a Season in London," Mrs. Bennet pressed on, "but a Season as the guest of the Adlams, staying at Breezewood House—_that_ is something which nobody in Meryton could boast! It is so much better than staying in Cheapside with my brother and his family! Think only of the people you shall meet! Everybody will be so fashionable—and rich—you might marry better than Lizzie or Jane, if it comes to it!"

"I have no interest in marrying for wealth or position," Mary said tightly.

"No, indeed, my dear, I know _that_; but nonetheless think of your prospects as they are now, and as they shall be when you are at Breezewood House and everybody knows you as the particular friend and guest of Lord and Lady Adlam; is that not some temptation?"

Mary bit her lip, and glanced down at the letter again. _Robert has said he may come to stay for a little while…_

"It has been too long since I have seen Rosamond," she said at last. "And if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are to go to Town as well, then I should like to see them. I am sure a few months would be agreeable, even if it _is _London."

"There you are, my love," Mrs. Bennet replied, pleased. "You will enjoy yourself very much, I am sure of it. A Season in London! How delightful! How good of Her Ladyship! _That_ is the sort of friend upon whom one can rely, my dear, take note of it. Oh! How I wish I were twenty-two again!"

* * *

Mr. Bennet, despite a hard-learned habit of keeping his daughters at home whenever possible, did not in fact offer much objection to the London scheme. The journey to Bath had been undertaken without any grave disasters; his children, upon their return to Longbourn, had indeed seemed rather more reasonable and composed than they had been when they left, which was a benefit he had not foreseen. _That_ expedition had taken place under the eye of Mrs. Bennet, and yet no ill-conceived marriages had been made, as he had feared. (Indeed, had Mary asked to go to London with Mrs. Bennet to watch over her, Mr. Bennet would have hesitated, for he had seen the way in which Mrs. Bennet's eyes raked hungrily over every assembly, seeking whichever potential son-in-law might most impress her friends.)

But it was not Mrs. Bennet who would supervise this excursion; it was Rosamond Adlam, and while Mr. Bennet had never met her Ladyship, he nonetheless, from all he had heard, understood her to be a generally sensible sort of person. Furthermore, it was unlikely that Lady Adlam would press gentlemen of all shapes and sizes upon his daughter's company, nor encourage her to any imprudent match. That the Darcys were to be in London within a few months was an added benefit, for surely his Lizzie would not allow her sister to come to any harm. And Mary herself appeared, these days, to have a decent head upon her shoulders.

And so Mr. Bennet's agreement was secured, to the elation of Mrs. Bennet, who had visions of grand titles dancing through her head. "I only wish I could go with you, to help you find a husband," she said to Mary, "though I suppose Lady Adlam will be a great help to you in that. Indeed I daresay you could have no better guidance, for look only how well she has done for herself! Imagine if she were to find _you_ a viscount, my love, or better yet an earl or a marquess—or even a baron would be agreeable! How pleased I would be, to have one of my own daughters styled as Lady So-and-So—can you imagine anything more agreeable?"

"I certainly can," Mary replied stiffly, "and I am quite certain that Rosamond has other objects in asking me to stay, besides an expansion of my matrimonial prospects."

Mrs. Bennet waved this away and hurried off happily to examine Mary's wardrobe, which she was certain would require a great deal of work.

It was now early January. Upon Mary's acceptance of the invitation, a flurry of correspondence arose between the two houses, as the young women, in the tradition of affectionate friends, each tried to arrange things to best suit the convenience of the other, and bickered politely over the best modes of travel (Rosamond offered to send a carriage all the way to Hertfordshire, while Mary insisted she could travel perfectly easily by the mail), and the most fitting date of arrival, and other such matters.

At last, it was decided that Mary should depart Longbourn in a fortnight by post-chaise, and so arrive in London by early February. Sir William Lucas, who had business in the City at that time, would travel with her as far as the Strand, and Lord Adlam would meet her there and escort her to Berkeley Square and Breezewood House.

With these matters settled, Mary soon found her days much taken up with preparations for the journey. There were her gowns and day-dresses to be hemmed and altered to suit the latest fashions, at Mrs. Bennet's insistence, for she would not have her daughter looking like an uncultivated country-lass for her first Season in Town; there were trunks to be found and dragged from storage and cleaned; there were gloves to be bought and shoes to be repaired. The frenzy in the Longbourn household, led by Mrs. Bennet, might have given a bystander the impression that Mary was to depart in two days, rather than two weeks, and as the days slid by Mary found herself hurrying more and more often to Netherfield to escape the chaos.

"You will enjoy London," Jane assured her kindly, bouncing baby Emma on her knee. "It is so diverting. I know you have never cared much for Society, but there are many other things to see and do. And of course you will be staying with such dear friends, and you will have the opportunity of seeing Lizzie and the children. The prospect of such company alone must elevate your spirits."

In fact, Mary's anticipation of the journey had been steadily growing. Though she had initially been hesitant, the more she reflected upon the idea, the more it appealed to her; it had indeed been too long since she had seen Rosamond, who was one of a very few people, beyond her own relatives, whom Mary readily termed "friend." Robert was another, and the thought of seeing him again after so long a correspondence filled her with a pleasant lightness. Rosamond had said that he may only stay for a little while, but who could say what might happen when they were thrown together, even if it was only briefly?

But Mary stopped herself here. It would not do to grow romantic, she told herself sternly. She was not Lydia, or even Kitty, and she could not begin to indulge in quixotic hypotheticals. She would properly re-evaluate her feelings when she saw Robert again, and take whatever action appeared most appropriate as a result.

Kitty herself, of course, took her own characteristic view of the situation. The only one of the family who was fully aware of Mary's understanding with Robert, she learned of the London scheme from Mrs. Bennet and immediately penned a letter to her sister, filled with excited conjectures over the proposal that was sure to take place once Robert caught sight of Mary again, and how he might go about it, and whether they should be wed immediately from Breezewood House (surely Mr. Darcy would not mind giving Mary away, so Lord Adlam might stand up with Robert), or whether they ought to wait and be married from Longbourn.

Mary read her sister's note with a smile, but also with a raised eyebrow, though she noted with pleasure that Kitty seemed far more enthusiastic about the prospect of Mary's happiness with Robert, than envious of all the entertainments which would fill Mary's time while in Town. Truly her sister was no longer the same shallow silly girl she had been when they were younger—though of course Kitty did devote one or two teasing lines to her disappointment that such a thrill as dancing at Almack's should be wasted upon a bluestocking like Mary.

_You must dance at least two dances for me, _Kitty wrote fondly, _though I know it will give you little pleasure; but these are the nuisances which must be borne for the sake of sisterly harmony. Dance with an earl or a marquess if you can manage it, although a viscount would serve equally well and you shall already have one convenient to you if Rose does not mind sparing him for a few minutes._ _I am sure your Robert could not begrudge you two dances with another gentleman, especially his own brother-in-law (who shall someday be your brother-in-law as well, after all!)_.

If Kitty had been present, Mary would have reminded her sternly that Robert did not belong to anybody but himself; but as she was alone and unobserved, she allowed herself a moment of tenderness at the look of the words on the page—"your Robert"—before informing herself that she was being very silly indeed.

* * *

The fortnight before her departure passed quickly. Before she knew it, Mary was bidding fond farewells to her mother and father, her sister and brother-in-law, her little nephews and niece, all of whom had come to Longbourn to see her off, and taking Sir William's hand to climb into the post-chaise. A lump rose unexpectedly in her throat as she turned to say her final farewells, and she blinked back the swelling tears to smile at her family.

"Remember the great favor which Lady Adlam does you by her invitation," Mrs. Bennet ordered, "and do not pass up any chance of meeting new people, for I am sure the family at Breezewood is possessed of many useful connections!"

"Do take every opportunity of enjoying yourself," Jane advised more kindly.

"Yes, do, for there is so much to see in London," Charles Bingley urged.

"Remain sensible, my dear," Mr. Bennet said, "as I know you will."

"Good-bye, auntie," the twins chorused at Jane's sides; even Emma, in her father's arms, waved a chubby fist, and though she was far too young for the gesture to have any real intention, the sight warmed Mary's heart. She raised a hand to wave at them all. The driver flicked his crop at the horses and they started down the lane, gaining speed as they trotted away from Longbourn. The Bennet and Bingley families still stood before the house, waving and calling goodbyes, and then the carriage went around a curve and Mary lost sight of them all. She sat back in her seat, brushing hurriedly at her eyes.

"It is always difficult to part from our loved ones," Sir William said gently. "But think only of all the adventures you shall have in London. I daresay there are a great many young ladies in Meryton who envy you—my own daughters not least among them!" He chuckled.

* * *

It was the work of only a few hours to carry them beyond the boundaries of Mary's mental map, and into country that was unfamiliar to her. They passed through villages that looked very like Meryton, through empty countryside and the outskirts of bustling towns, past horsemen, pedestrians and other carriages of all shapes and sizes, past frozen lakes and ponds and rivers, every so often catching sight of people ice-skating on the glassy surfaces. A dusting of snow lay upon everything, and the sky was gray and heavy with promise.

Sir William was no stranger to the journey, for his business took him into Town at least once or twice a year, and he kept up a running commentary of the towns and estates they passed, and who lived there and how long they had done so, and how far they were now from London, and so on. Under ordinary circumstances, Mary—whose disposition was ill-suited to chatter—would have been irritated indeed, but just now she found Sir William's presence more comforting than anything else. It was the first time she had ever made any journey without one or both of her parents and at least one of her sisters alongside her, and she was glad of the familiarity.

Her entire self was in a quiet uproar: the strain of eagerness within her was overpowered by the trepidation and uncertainty which must accompany any new venture. For a young lady who has spent most of her life in a very small village and never wished to be anyplace else, and cannot understand the desire expressed by other young ladies to visit London or Bath or Brighton or any other fashionable place—for such a young lady, a Season in Town is a daunting prospect indeed.

On top of the usual fears that plague a nervous traveler (what if their carriage was robbed by highwaymen or overturned on some icy patch of road? What if she could not find Lord Adlam at the Strand and was obliged to seek her own way to Breezewood House?) was overlaid Mary's greatest fear of all, familiar and unspoken and much-loathed: that she would not fit in, that nobody in the entire city would like her, that even dear Rosamond would find her company something to be endured rather than enjoyed, and that Robert, arriving at Breezewood House in March or April, would take one look at her and turn away, disappointed that the reality did not live up to his remembrance.

It was Mary's usual practice, when preparing for a ball or some other dreaded social event, to respond to such thoughts with an assertion of her own superiority: she was an excellent reader, a practiced musician, and an intellectual, who had better things to do than attempt to impress everybody else. _She_ did not mind that she was not pretty, or that others thought her dull, for the depth of her own mind far surpassed that of her detractors. Certainly she had never received much attention of any sort, particularly in comparison with her prettier, more amiable sisters, and so she had always insisted that she did not _want_ attention. Such things she would tell herself, convincing herself that they were the truth. This tactic had served her for twenty-three years.

Yet now she was vulnerable, set on her back foot: what an ordeal to be alone, in a strange environment, surrounded by people who were _not_ family and therefore were _not_ obligated to love her, and might very well find her too plain and tedious to be tolerated! Furthermore, these were people for whom she already had a great respect, and by whom she _wished_ to be liked.

It was one thing, she thought grimly, to exchange affectionate letters with Rosamond; letters were written expressly by people who had news to share and interesting things to say; it was quite another to sit stupidly in a fashionable drawing-room, as she certainly would, with nothing to contribute to the general conversation. Certainly it might lead Rosamond to re-evaluate their friendship, and find that the Mary Bennet to whom she had inexplicably taken a liking three years ago was hardly so agreeable as she had remembered.

Mary could not even bring herself to think of Robert just now.

She was a little distracted from these gloomy reflections by Sir William's cheerful talk, but a wave of nervousness washed over her as they began to draw into the city proper. Barnet and Finchley still had the qualities of villages; even Camden Town, with its inns and small public houses, did not feel much bigger than Meryton. But then London rose before them, only a few miles south. A few more streets, turning now from dust and dirt into cobblestone; the clip-clopping of many hooves growing ever louder; and suddenly a multitude of people, all around the post-chaise, walking and running and riding and promenading and all talking at once, calling to one another, ducking in between carriages to cross the road, leading children by the hand and animals by the halter, carrying everything from covered baskets to stacks of books and papers to live squawking hens. Mary stared out the window, appalled and fascinated by the host of humanity surrounding her. Never in her life—even in the ballrooms of Bath—had she seen so many people in one place.

In fact Mary had been to London once before, when she was ten or eleven and the Bennets had come to visit the Gardiners in Cheapside. But she had, at the time, noticed little about the city they were entering, too concerned was she with the injustice of her sisters being given window-seats, when she was forced to sit between Lizzie and Jane and could not see anything. Even during their stay (only a fortnight—Mr. Bennet could not endure Town any longer than that), little Mary had paid little attention to London itself except to complain about the crowds and noise and the necessity of always holding somebody's hand when walking places and not having any time to herself. Already she began to feel the old discomfort creeping back.

"We are passing through Marylebone just now," Sir William explained. "This is Great Portland Street, which shall lead us to the Strand along the Haymarket, eventually. Hyde Park is to our east, and there I wager you shall spend many a pleasant morning when the weather is fine—unless of course Lady Adlam prefers to take her leisure in St. James's instead."

Mary nodded, though she did not know what he was talking about. There was no park visible from her side of the carriage.

It seemed incomprehensible that, in this warren of streets and squares and alleyways and footpaths, the driver should know where he was going. Indeed, they made so many turns and took so many curves that Mary would scarce have been able to keep her bearings even if she had had some inkling of London geography. As it was, she began to feel rather overwhelmed, and pressed a hand to her head.

"There, there, Miss Mary," Sir William said, noticing her discomfort. "I confess I do not particularly enjoy these long journeys myself; but we are not so far from our destination now, and I imagine Lord Adlam's carriage is a fine sight more comfortable than these post-chaises!" He winked at her. Mary gave him a weak smile.

"It is only so much larger than Meryton," she said, "and even Bath."

Sir William chuckled. "Indeed it is, my dear," he replied, "indeed it is!"

In truth they were _not_ so far from the Strand, and in less than twenty minutes Mary felt the carriage drawing to a slow halt upon a very grand street, lined with buildings that might each have fit three Longbourns inside of them. "Do you see that one, Miss Mary?" Sir William said, pointing at one. "That is Exeter 'Change; you might ask your friends to take you there, for inside is a marvelous menagerie, where one might see lions and monkeys and other such curiosities."

"What—inside the building?" Mary stared up at the impassive façade.

"Of course, Miss Mary, within the upper rooms. Is it not a capital city?" He laughed at his own pun, and at her astonishment.

Mary had not quite made up her mind yet on that score, but Sir William did not seem to be expecting a reply, as he climbed out of the carriage and offered a hand to her.

Drawing her coat closer about her, she climbed down and stood upon London ground for the first time (at least, the first time worthy of memory). The noise, which had been a little muted inside the carriage, surrounded her, and for a moment she feared that she would be swept up in the tide of people passing along the footpath. Servants and clerks and secretaries were rushing about their business, winding their hurried way through the crowd, while ladies and gentlemen proceeded at a leisurely pace, talking and laughing amongst themselves or looking down their noses at everybody else. One elderly lady, in a gown of fine cashmere and a fur-lined cloak, fixed Mary with a haughty stare which made her frown, and turn away to watch the coachman unloading her luggage. She need not care for the good opinion of _these_ people, after all.

She had been a little worried that Sir William would proceed immediately to his business appointment, leaving her to fend for herself in the wild street until her rescue by Lord Adlam. But the kindly knight remained by her side, pointing out the other immense houses along the Strand. Very little of what he said penetrated the fog which presently surrounded her, but she appreciated his presence, and began to dread a little the moment when this jovial, fatherly figure would at last take his leave.

Yet the moment must come; and when it did, it was not so unpleasant as Mary had feared. Their post-chaise, paid and unloaded, departed (and with it, any thought Mary might have entertained of throwing herself upon the mercy of the coachman to take her back to Longbourn), but they remained standing in the same place before the 'Change, Sir William talking genially and Mary staring about herself in general bewilderment. It was not very long before a carriage, much finer than the post-chaise and painted with an impressive coat of arms, drew up, its horses coming to a smart halt, and the footman in his livery leapt to open the door.

"Miss Bennet," Lord Adlam said, stepping down and giving her a low bow, "welcome to London."

Mary was so relieved to see him that she gave a very uncharacteristic gasp, which she quickly smothered. She mustered a curtsy and an introduction between the two gentlemen. They bowed to one another, and exchanged a few pleasantries while the footmen took care of Mary's luggage, and then they were bowing again and Sir William was turning to her.

"Well, my dear Miss Bennet," he remarked, "I daresay you will return to Longbourn with a great many stories to tell, which shall make my daughters and all of the other young ladies of the neighborhood very jealous indeed!"

Mary nodded weakly.

"Do enjoy your stay here," he went on. "Goodbye!"

"Goodbye," Mary said, "and I wish you a safe journey back into Hertfordshire," and he bowed and she curtsied, and then Sir William was gone—her last little bit of home was gone. She would have watched him go, but Lord Adlam, smiling at her, was offering her a hand up into the carriage.

"I am aware it cannot be very pleasant for you," he said, "to finish one journey, only to begin another right away; but I promise that it is only a short ride to Breezewood."

Mary managed a faint smile as she stepped up, though her head was beginning to ache in earnest. He climbed in beside her, and with a word to the driver, they were off at a brisk trot, somehow navigating through all of the other traffic that crowded the road.

They were soon in a quieter area of London, where the houses were larger. People here did not appear to be in a hurry about any particular business, but walked down the street in groups of twos and threes: gentlemen and ladies arm-in-arm and looking proudly around at everyone else, occasionally offering polite greetings to those of their acquaintance. Fashionable walking-dresses of all colors and fabrics were in abundance, embellished with ribbons and embroidery and other such finery, though only the skirts could be seen beneath the expensive cloaks and shawls and coats drawn about them, and exotic hats and bonnets on top. For the first time, Mary felt rather self-conscious of her plain wool traveling clothes; but she reminded herself that it took a shallow mind indeed to devote itself to such trivial adornments, and felt a little better.

"Is this Mayfair?" she asked, for it was one of the few London names she knew.

"Yes, it is. I am afraid we must go back the direction you came, at least for a little while, which must seem rather foolish to you. But I have instructed my driver to go along the parks; it is a much pleasanter route. We are passing Hyde Park now."

"It _is_ much pleasanter," Mary agreed, turning to look out the window. A vast lawn, dusted white with snow and dotted with trees, stretched out beside them. Paths snaked here and there across the grass, lined with barren flowerbeds. That did not seem so bad—certainly a respite from the chaos of Marlyebone and the Strand and whatever other crowded places they had driven through. "I have always preferred greenery to buildings; I find that it allows for deeper reflection. Do you live close to here?"

"Very close," he said, smiling. "In just a moment we shall turn onto Mount Street, and from there it is only the blink of an eye till we are home."

This was a little reassuring.

Breezewood House was situated on the western side of fashionable Berkeley Square, facing Hyde Park and looking out onto the square itself, which offered a generous walking-path and a few places to sit amongst the snowy trees. It was a large, handsome house of several stories with tall square windows, built of a pale limestone which, Mary mused, Rosamond must find rather familiar, coming as she did from the white buildings of Bath. The gray winter day had begun to darken into dusk; the lights inside the house gleamed cheerfully out onto the street, and the chimneys puffed curling smoke into the air. Despite these signs of warmth and comfort, however, Mary could not entirely escape the feeling that this house was much too grand for her.

"We are very glad to have you here for the Season," the young viscount said.

"I am very grateful to have been invited," Mary replied, her mother's words ringing in her ears as she stared at the house. "It is always agreeable to enjoy the society of good friends, with whom one may be most truly oneself."

"Indeed," Lord Adlam agreed. "Should you like to get out of the carriage now, Miss Bennet?"

His tone was teasing, and Mary colored.

The inside of Breezewood House was as impressive as the outside; the ceilings were very high, the staircase wide and sweeping, the chandelier bright and sparkling. Mary's eyes widened as she looked about her. She had expected grandeur, of course, for this was the home of a viscount and viscountess, but she had not expected it to be _this_ grand; it rather reminded her of Pemberley, though necessarily compressed. The furnishings were very elegant and clearly expensive, in a classical style that matched the house's exterior. Peering through the tall arched doorways, Mary glimpsed rooms equally well-appointed stretching away to either side.

A liveried servant appeared soundlessly to divest Mary of her things, while another tended to the viscount. The city noises had faded somewhat as they drove onto the square, and inside the house it was quite still, with only the occasional noise of distant footsteps upon the dark gleaming floors. Mary swallowed. Longbourn—even Netherfield seemed dwarfed by the city-elegance of Breezewood. Certainly she did not belong here. It was nothing like her uncle's house in Cheapside.

"My wife is likely in the music room," Lord Adlam told her. "I know she is most eager to see you again." He held out his arm.

"Of course," Mary said faintly, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. They climbed the grand staircase together and passed along a wide brightly-lit hallway hung with what must be family portraits. The last one they passed was of the present Lord and Lady Adlam in wedding-clothes, the viscountess with her long hair arranged intricately atop her head and secured with a jeweled comb. Mary turned to inspect it more closely; but at that moment they turned and went through a tall doorway, and were faced with the portrait's original.

"Mary!" Rosamond exclaimed, coming forward to embrace her. "My dear Mary, how good it is to see you again!"

Mary wrapped her arms gladly about her friend. Too long had passed since their last meeting, and Rosamond, now twenty-four, was lovelier than ever: slender and fair, with long, loose gold curls wound into a careless _chignon_ and large gray eyes that shone as she smiled (just like her brother's, Mary noted unconsciously). But now, of course, Rosamond's simple dress was of much finer cloth and make than the things she had been used to wear in Bath, and she wore a few tasteful, expensive trinkets that glittered faintly in the light, including a wedding-band set with delicate sapphires.

"I hope your journey was not too uncomfortable," the viscountess said, leading Mary to a chair. "I was afraid that Julian would not be able to find you right away, and that you would be obliged to wait in the cold; but you are home rather sooner than I had anticipated. I shall send for tea and cakes." She nodded at a footman who was posted near the door, and he disappeared.

"We were quite fortunate," Lord Adlam said, taking the seat beside his wife and smiling at her. "I caught sight of Miss Bennet directly we turned onto the Strand, and Harris was able to find a stopping-place just before her."

"Small serendipities," Rosamond replied, with a smile. "Has it begun to snow?"

"Not yet, my love, though I am sure we shall see a few flakes before morning."

"I love the snow in London," Rosamond confided in Mary. "I love the way it looks upon the rooftops, and the grass in the parks. Has it been a cold winter in Hertfordshire?"

"Not so different from here, I imagine," Mary replied. "The river and ponds are frozen solid, and the village children greatly amuse themselves trying to walk upon the ice."

"I am sure your nephews are not least among their number," Rosamond said.

"No indeed—though their nurse and I have confined them to the pond in the Netherfield garden. They are too prone to slips and falls to be released upon the general public."

Rosamond laughed. "And how fares your little niece? Robert tells me that you were all very pleased to have a baby girl in the family."

"Emma is very dear," Mary said, blushing a little in spite of herself at the mention of Robert, "and I think Jane and Mr. Bingley are rather relieved that they need not trouble with twins this time; I mean no offense, of course," she added, for Rosamond and Robert were twins. The viscountess waved a dismissive hand.

"It is all too true that twins are more trouble; Robert and I took great delight in proving it all throughout our infancy."

"And beyond," Lord Adlam chimed in, laughing. "I still grow wary of my surroundings when the two of them are in a house together. One never knows what mischief may be lurking."

Rosamond smiled at him. "You may have no fear, my love; you are quite safe. It is really only our brother and sisters who ought to be concerned, for with them we are merciless."

"I hope that Charles and Edward are so discerning with their mischief," Mary commented wryly.

"As long as they are provided with siblings to bedevil," Rosamond assured her, "they certainly will be."

The tea and cakes arrived at that moment, and with them Miss Juliet Hart, the youngest of the Hart siblings. Though there were but a few years between them, Juliet had been little more than a gangly child when last she and Mary had met. Now a young woman of eighteen, she was quite grown-up; her features had lost much of their childish aspect, and she shared no small part of her sister's beauty, though her temperament was somewhat less peaceful.

"Why, Mary!" Juliet cried. "I had not thought that you would arrive until supper-time; what a fine surprise to find you here already! You must have traveled very fast."

"Juliet has come to stay the Season," Rosamond explained, taking her sister's hand affectionately, "and left our poor father all alone at Hart House."

Young Miss Hart laughed. "I think 'poor father' enjoys his solitude; and anyway he has Theo and Anne and Helena and Gabriel and all of the little ones close by now, and they will not allow him much time to be lonely. Do you enjoy being an aunt, Mary? I do; I think it the most wonderful thing in the world."

Mary agreed, taking a bite of cake.

The conversation continued for some time in this desultory manner; Mary, a little soothed by the warm cake and the warm tea and the warm fire, felt her nerves begin to ease. Talking with Rosamond was as pleasant as it had ever been; Juliet and Lord Adlam were solicitous and amiable. Why on earth had she worried so? she scolded herself silently. Rosamond was a kind, affectionate friend, who would not have issued an invitation to someone whose company she did not honestly enjoy.

But then every so often, during a lull in the conversation, Mary would glance about the bright music-room, with its long couches and high-backed chairs and, as promised, beautiful mahogany pianoforte. Next to the instrument stood a tall harp painted a gleaming gold, and there were a great many fine paintings upon the walls. The general grandeur gave Mary the feeling she had always had at Pemberley, and even sometimes at Netherfield (particularly when Mr. Bingley's sisters were there): that she was dirtying the silk cushions, or tracking dirt onto the fine carpet, or otherwise making a nuisance of herself.

It was an exceedingly comfortable room, but it was _expensively_ comfortable, and seemed leagues away from the plain breakfast-room at Longbourn that contained the Bennets' own pianoforte. Mary wondered a little that Rosamond, whose upbringing had been as modest as her own, was so much at ease in her surroundings; but of course three years as the mistress of such a house (and indeed two more like it, in Bath and Gloucestershire respectively) must have wrought some changes in her friend. She took another sip of tea.

They dined casually that evening. Lord Adlam's three sisters, who were also staying at Breezewood for the Season, were dining at the house of a friend; it was an event to which the others had also been invited, but they had elected to remain at home for Mary's sake.

"I did not think you would appreciate being thrust into Society so soon after your arrival," Rosamond explained gently.

"That is kind of you," Mary answered, relieved. "Yet I am sorry that you should be obliged to miss an evening with your friends."

Rosamond shrugged lightly. "I shall have many more evenings to spend with them; the Season is longer than it strictly ought to be, in my opinion, and before long everybody in Town will be quite sick of everybody else. An evening at home is no hardship."

"Is there anything particular you wish to do while you are in Town, Miss Bennet?" Lord Adlam asked.

"I am afraid I know very little of London and its entertainments," Mary replied.

"Then we shall be most happy to advise you," Rosamond said, smiling.

"I have only been here a week, Mary," Juliet put in happily, "so I am almost as new as you are. We shall have to explore and make friends together. I cannot return to Hart House without plenty of fine stories to share!"

"As long as your stories do not all revolve around ballrooms," Rosamond said. "There are many other things to see and do in London."

Juliet laughed. "I know _that_; I thought tomorrow we might go to the British Museum. And there is an excellent exhibition at the Royal Academy just now. And there are so many fine booksellers, Mary, that you shall not have a dull moment. You see, Rose?" she said to her sister. "I know Miss Bennet's tastes better than you think; I do not estimate that she will be obliged to dance more than eight or nine times in Almack's or any other ballroom.—And tomorrow you shall also meet the Miss Adlams," she added, returning to Mary, who was internally quailing a little at Juliet's statement regarding the ballrooms. "They are exceedingly amiable, and know a great deal about music and literature and art and poetry and so on. I think we shall be a merry party indeed for this Season!"

"Very merry," Rosamond agreed, with a laugh and a glance at her husband, "but overwhelmingly female; I hope Robert is able to tear himself away from his work, or my poor Julian shall pass a lonely Season indeed."

"Never, my dear, so long as you are with me," Lord Adlam said, resting his hand over her own. "I shall not mind forgoing discussions of shooting and hunting for a few months; you forget I was raised among sisters, and have only fairly recently been spoiled by the companionship of your excellent brothers."

"And Robert does not shoot, anyway," Mary put in, without thinking. The others turned to her, and she reddened. "That is—he said so in a letter, some months ago."

The rest of the party regarded her with some curiosity, and the viscountess raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I understand that the principal inhabitant of his village is a great devotee of the sport," Mary continued awkwardly, looking down at her plate. "Robert was telling me of his own helplessness when confronted with questions about his sporting preferences. It was truly rather amusing."

"I did not know you wrote to Robert," Juliet said, wide-eyed and grinning.

"Of course she does," Rosamond said. "They are friends, are they not?"

"I suppose Robert has nothing else to do, stuck away in that little village," Juliet agreed. "You must receive a _great_ many letters from him, Mary. If ever he begins to annoy you, make sure to tell him straightaway."

"In fact I believe he is kept quite busy by his medical practice," Mary said, rather amused, though her embarrassment had not wholly faded. "He mentioned that he would be glad of an assistant."

"Oh! I am sure it does keep him busy. But there are hospitals and practices a-plenty in Bath, including our own papa's, and even more here in London. It is not as though he would be idle, were he to go anyplace but Gossenbury. Indeed you must admit it would be more agreeable for everybody if he were to come to Town and work at one of the hospitals here, if he is determined not to go back to Bath."

"More agreeable for everybody except his patients in Gossenbury, who rely upon him," Rosamond interjected gently. "You must remember, Juliet, that our brother's plans are not made to suit our own convenience."

Juliet did not look entirely satisfied with this, but Lady Adlam turned the subject to other matters, and the meal proceeded pleasantly.

* * *

After supper, the ladies withdrew to an elegant drawing-room. Juliet, who had been a rather quiet girl when last Mary saw her, seemed to have no trouble making conversation now; she was most eager to tell Mary of the week she had spent in Town, and the fascinating things and people she had seen, though she prefaced her statements with laughing declarations that Mary should surely find no interest in any of it.

"Yet I must speak to _someone_," she added, grinning, "for it is all old hat to Rosamond now, and of course the Miss Adlams spend every Season in Town, and always have done, so they find my wonder to be exceedingly provincial."

"Once they have made _my_ acquaintance," Mary assured her, "they shall think you the height of sophistication."

Juliet laughed.

"But of course," Rosamond said, lifting her gaze from her embroidery with a smile, "there is a difference between sophistication and sense; and whatever you think you may lack in the one, Mary, you more than make up for in the other."

Mary was rather touched by this.

Lord Adlam joined them after half an hour or so, and there was another agreeable hour spent talking and laughing. Mary, who had never spoken much with the viscount before he had married Rosamond, was pleased to find him a sensible man, amiable and intelligent, with a casual good humor that belied his aristocratic upbringing. He was worthy of her friend, she decided with satisfaction, and she did not resent his company.

At length, however, Mary began to yawn, regretfully yet irrepressibly. Lady Adlam, seeing this, immediately apologized for having kept her awake so late; "Of course you must be tired from your journey," she said. "I shall be happy to show you to your room."

"You must become accustomed to London hours, Mary," Juliet teased, shaking her head; "it is rare indeed that anybody in Town goes to bed before midnight, or rises before noon."

"You speak with a great deal of expertise, for somebody who has only been here a week," Rosamond chided, laughing, "and who has not once managed to keep her eyes open past eleven o' clock since her arrival. Come, Mary." She looped her arm through Mary's, and gently steered her unresisting friend from the room.

The house was quiet, and their footsteps echoed on the polished wooden floors. Rosamond hummed a soft tune as they walked.

"You seem happy, Rose," Mary ventured, after a long moment. Her friend beamed at her.

"I am," she affirmed. "I am very happy. I could not be otherwise, with so dear a friend come to stay with me for the Season."

Mary had in fact meant more generally that Rosamond seemed happy in her new life; but she did not press this point. "I cannot imagine that my presence here could have any great effect upon your enjoyment of the Season," she said instead, drily. "I am not so merry a guest as my sisters."

"I know _that_," Rose agreed, with a little laugh, as they climbed a curved staircase. "But I love you in spite of it."

In another moment they had reached the room that was to be Mary's, and stepped inside together. It was an elegant, airy chamber, a great deal larger than Mary's room at Longbourn, with three windows looking out to the east and a fire crackling in a carved marble hearth. Already, Mary's things had been unpacked and put away; her nightclothes lay invitingly upon the bedspread.

"I hope you shall be comfortable here," Rosamond said, gazing anxiously at her. "Juliet is two doors down, if you should grow lonely."

"I shall be very comfortable," Mary assured her.

Rosamond smiled, and squeezed her hand affectionately. "I am glad to have you here, Mary; I am glad you wished to come, in spite of the journey, and your distaste for Town. I hope you enjoy yourself."

"I am sure I shall," Mary answered, and for the first time, with Rosamond's warm hand clasping her own, and her friend's fond gaze upon her, she meant it. "I am very appreciative of your invitation—truly."

"It was no trouble," Rosamond said. "Sleep well, Mary."

With that, she was gone.

Mary, finding herself completely alone for the first time in more than twelve hours—quite a contrast to her usual habits—dressed silently in her nightclothes, taking some comfort in the familiar feel of the worn homespun upon her skin. She may be in a fashionable house, in a fashionable city, she thought, but she had not left the countryside entirely behind.

Once dressed for bed, she crossed to the window. The lights of the nearby houses gleamed warm and bright in the night, and she could see the city spread out beyond, full of life and light even at this late hour. She gave a great yawn, not bothering to cover her mouth. Snowflakes had begun drifting down, invisible until they passed before the lighted windows, where they danced and spun. Already the ground was dusted faintly white, and she wondered what it would look like tomorrow.

Watching the snow made Mary's eyelids grow ever heavier, and at last she turned from the window, climbing into the great soft bed and blowing out the candle. The room filled with the shifting glow of the fire, dying now, and she pressed her feet gratefully against the covered bed-warmer that some thoughtful chambermaid had placed between the sheets. Despite the strangeness of her surroundings, the long day of travel and worry caught up with Mary at last, and she fell fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the wait on this one. It's one of those things that I start to work on, and then the world goes crazy and I have to do other things for awhile. But enjoy, and thank you for all the marvelous feedback on the first chapter! Also, hey, I have a tumblr about my dumb cat Archie who is bad at things. Check it out if you want: archietrying . tumblr . com. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

Mary's habit at Longbourn was to rise early, and practice upon her pianoforte or perform some other useful task until her parents joined her in the breakfast-room. She woke at her usual hour upon her first morning at Breezewood House; but rather than hasten out of bed, she allowed herself the rare luxury of pulling her blankets more tightly about her, and resting for a few minutes more.

The house was quiet, and Mary guessed sleepily that the rest of the household must still be abed—for it was, after all, a fashionable London household. The room was pleasantly warm, the fire clearly having been refreshed at some point earlier in the morning, for it danced cheerfully in the hearth. Mary dozed comfortably in the soft dimness of the bedroom.

When she woke for the second time, it was to a slant of gray morning light across her eyelids as a chambermaid quietly opened the curtains. There was a paleness to the light which suggested snow upon the ground, and Mary sat up slowly, blinking. The carved mahogany clock upon the mantelpiece informed her that it was nearly half-past nine. It was rare indeed that she slept so late, and she felt more than a little ashamed of her self-indulgence.

"Breakfast is upon the sideboard, miss," the chambermaid reported, "though Lady Adlam assures you that you may rest as long as you like. May I help you dress?"

Her charge refused politely, and the chambermaid curtsied, leaving with an instruction to ring if anything further was required.

There was a brief moment in which Mary considered sinking back against the soft pillows; indeed her eyes felt quite ready to close again; but she had already slept far too long, and she flushed guiltily as she threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed. One night at Breezewood House, and she was becoming an indolent London miss!

The sky outside was gray, but not threateningly so, and Mary paused before the window to admire the sight of fresh snow upon the ground and the roofs of the surrounding houses. The snow made everything appear clean and bright despite the clouds, and for a moment London seemed less disgreeable—indeed, it even seemed rather pretty.

Mary dressed quickly in a green checked day-dress and wool shawl, twisting her hair behind her head and then, after a moment of hesitation, tying it with a dark green ribbon that she had brought along in case of a ball. It was London, after all, she thought; she ought to make at least one nod to fashion.

The hallway was quiet as Mary slipped out the bedroom door; but as she descended the broad front staircase into the entry-hall, she could hear voices in the dining room, and the gentle clink of cutlery. She hesitated for an instant, remembering that today she was to be introduced to Lord Adlam's sisters; but when she entered the room, it was only the viscount and viscountess at the long table. Rosamond was laughing at something her husband had said.

"Good morning, Mary!" she exclaimed, her hands around a mug of tea. "Did you sleep well?"

"Rather too well," Mary admitted wryly, crossing to the sideboard. She had not realized how hungry she was, until she caught sight of the slices of ham and toast piled high upon their serving-dishes. "I am not accustomed to staying abed so late."

"I am sure you are not," Rosamond agreed, teasingly. "Our Mary is a young woman of unusual industry," she added, turning to Lord Adlam with sparkling eyes, "and endeavors to spend all of her time in the most useful fashion possible. Sleeping late is quite beyond her ken."

"I can only wish my sisters might follow your example, Miss Bennet," Lord Adlam said, smiling at his guest. "In twenty-seven years upon this earth, I declare I have never caught sight of any of them before eleven o'clock."

"Juliet, too, is become quite a slugabed," Rose added. "She shall be in for a rude shock indeed when she returns to our father's house; he has always thought it best for young people to rise early, much to all of our chagrin.—But I am glad your rest was comfortable, Mary. Did you see the snow?"

"It is quite lovely."

"Julian has been out already, and says it is not so very cold. If you like, we might take a turn through the park this afternoon."

Mary agreed with pleasure, and set about her breakfast with an appetite borne of a long journey and a long sleep.

Juliet joined them in another half-hour, pretty and fair in a white muslin day-dress, and greeted them all breezily as she helped herself to a heaping plate from the sideboard. "Has the mail come, Rose?" she asked. Her sister shook her head.

"It is still rather early, I think. Are you awaiting anything particular?"

"Not for _me_," Juliet answered teasingly, "but I am sure Miss Bennet would not mind a letter from Robert."

Mary flushed lightly.

"Let us allow Miss Bennet to worry over her correspondence," Rosamond said to her sister, with a faintly scolding tone, "the better to mind our own affairs."

Juliet looked down at her plate, but could not suppress a grin. Mary reflected that perhaps the youngest Hart child was more akin to her lively eldest brother and sister in spirit, than to the more sedate twins.

"At any rate, Miss Bennet only arrived yesterday," Lord Adlam pointed out. "I daresay it will be a few days yet before she begins to receive her letters here."

"But Robert _does_ know you are here, does he not?" Juliet pressed, turning to Mary.

"Indeed he does; I wrote to tell him as soon as everything was arranged."

"That is good," the young lady said with satisfaction, settling back into her chair. "Then we shall certainly have a better chance of seeing him in the spring—for I am sure he could not be induced from Gossenbury only to see his sisters."

"Mary's company is an inducement to any sensible person," Rosamond agreed serenely. "Now do stop pestering our guest, Julie, and eat your breakfast; I am sure your toast is quite cold by now."

Juliet laughed, and dug into her food with gusto.

* * *

After breakfast, the viscount retreated to his study with his steward to look over some papers, and Rosamond excused herself to write a few letters. Juliet led Mary to the music room, where Mary was only too happy to sit down at the elegant mahogany pianoforte, though she hesitated for a moment before laying her fingers upon the keys—the instrument was so much finer than any to which she was accustomed.

"I should like to hear you play," Juliet said, settling upon the long couch with her little writing-desk. "It reminds me of when we were all in Bath together, and you would come over and practice on Rose's instrument in the mornings. I always found your music so very inspiring."

"Even though it was only practice?" Mary asked, with a smile. "I have never thought misstruck keys particularly inspiring."

"Indeed they are, for I often think it is the act of learning that is most inspiring thing. Perfection is all very well, you know, but I like to hear somebody make a mistake here or there."

"Then I shall try something new today," Mary decided, rifling through Rosamond's impressive collection of sheet-music, "and provide you with plenty of mistakes. Here is one of Mr. Edelmann's, which I have never tried before."

Miss Hart was most encouraging, and Mary ventured into the first notes of the piece.

They passed nearly three-quarters of an hour in a companionable silence broken only by the music, which Mary hoped was very inspiring indeed, as the piece was a rather difficult one. Juliet's head was bent over her writing-desk—she had a fondness for writing poetry, and for reading it, as well—and she seemed very much pleased with the accompaniment provided for her words by Mary's music. With a fire blazing in the hearth, and a few snowflakes beginning to fall gently outside the window, it was remarkably pleasant and peaceful. If she could spend every morning in such a fashion, Mary thought, rather dreamily, she would be perfectly satisfied with London, even if it meant dancing in a ballroom every few nights.

Her inattention took its toll, however, as she suddenly struck two wrong keys in succession, and she winced at the ugly sound. Just then the door opened.

"There!" exclaimed a voice; "I did not _think _that could be Rose playing."

It was a very rich voice, good breeding and expensive education in all its accents, and the young woman accompanying it was no less impressive as she strode into the room, followed by two younger ladies. Mary took her fingers from the keys, vexed that the Miss Adlams—for these creatures of fashion could be no others—should have chosen to make their appearance at such a moment (why could they not have waited until she had moved on to a piece with which she was more experienced?), and stood hastily, nearly stumbling over the piano-bench as she did so.

"Good morning, Juliet," said the lady who had spoken. "And you are Miss Bennet, I believe." She made a low, graceful curtsy, as the other two did the same behind her.

"You must be Miss Adlam," Mary answered, with a curtsy of her own.

"I am Regina Adlam," the lady confirmed. "These are my sisters, Philippa and Cassandra. It is a great pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Bennet; Rosamond has told us ever so much about you." She afforded Mary a perfunctory smile.

Mary had seen Lord Adlam's sisters once before, at Rosamond's wedding, but had had no opportunity (nor, if she were honest with herself, desire) to converse with any of them, and that had been nearly four years ago besides. Thus she took a moment, now, to acquaint herself with these heretofore unseen members of the Breezewood household.

The Honorable Miss Adlams were tall, like their elder brother, with slender, graceful frames and a very imperious sort of beauty about their features; they were all elegant lines in their smart lustring day-dresses. Regina, who looked to be a year or two Mary's senior, had hair so dark that it was nearly black, high sharp cheekbones, and bright blue eyes with a rather catlike look to them. She appeared wholly unimpressed by the Miss Bennet of whom Rosamond had told her ever so much, and settled upon one of the couches without another word to Mary, arranging her skirts so they fell becomingly to the expensive carpet. Her younger sisters were no less striking; they settled on either side of Miss Regina, and the three of them together looked quite like a fashion-plate. Mary was suddenly very conscious of her plain checked frock and worn woolen shawl, and even more so of the sad little ribbon in her hair—her foolish attempt at fashion! Her own self-consciousness annoyed her, and she glanced away from the charming scene.

"We did not mean to interrupt your playing, Miss Bennet," one of them said (Mary thought it was Miss Philippa, but she could not be certain). "Please, continue."

"Indeed, for you were playing so beautifully," said the other, who might have been Miss Cassandra. Mary flushed involuntarily. There was no mocking smile, no hint of sarcasm, in the young lady's tone, and yet there was something very plainly insincere about the way the words were spoken—as though Miss Cassandra simply did not care to hide the fact that she was speaking out of mere politeness.

"That is quite all right," Mary said, taking the seat next to Juliet. "I have finished my practice for the day." She hoped the Miss Adlams would hear the emphasis she put upon the word _practice_, but no recognition crossed their impassive features.

"It is much nicer to talk, when one has a room full of people," Juliet agreed, setting her writing-desk aside.

"How right you are," Miss Regina said, giving Juliet a smile. "Shall we ring for some tea and cakes?"

"Yes, do," Juliet said, "and we shall eat them all before Rose gets here, so she will be very sorry indeed to have missed such a merry morning."

"I do not think I shall take any," Mary interjected. "I ate quite an excellent breakfast this morning."

"I am glad to hear it, Miss Bennet," said Miss Regina. "But you see, my sisters and I are not so fastidious as we ought to be, and slept right through breakfast, so that there was nothing but toast when we came to table. I think some tea and cakes would suit us very well." She lifted the little silver bell from its table beside the couch, and rang it imperiously.

"How was your evening?" Juliet asked, eagerness plain in her tone. Miss Regina laughed.

"_I_ thought it was very dull," she said, with a jaunty toss of her head, "but I suppose such things are to be always dull for me, now that I am engaged and no longer allowed to flirt with any of the gentlemen."

"Though your engagement does not stop that silly Malcolm Pierce from trailing after you all the time," said the young lady who might be Miss Philippa.

"That is hardly my fault," Miss Regina answered. "I've been as cruel to him as I can, and he never seems to notice. He asked me to dance with him _twice_ at the Rutledges' on Saturday. It was very shocking."

But she hardly sounded shocked.

"Don't be too cruel to him, Regina," Miss Cassandra said, "for I shouldn't like the family to give us up. I've been thinking Lewis Pierce might do very well for Juliet." She winked at her young sister-in-law, who blushed and smiled.

"We have decided that it is our duty to find Juliet a London beau, so that she can be a true London miss," Miss Philippa said to Mary.

"But you mustn't tell Rose," Juliet said, grinning, "for I am sure she will be very disapproving."

"Perhaps rightly so," Mary replied stiffly. "It is never kind to toy with the feelings of another simply for one's own amusement."

"You must forgive Mary for speaking so seriously," Juliet told the others. "She has a beau already, so she is quite above such nonsense as flirtations and intrigues."

"_Have_ you a beau?" said Miss Regina, in a tone which suggested that she could not quite believe it. Mary's cheeks flamed, and she wished heartily that Juliet would not say anything more. But her hope was in vain, for the younger lady continued cheerfully,

"Oh, yes! She is in love with my brother Robert, and he with her, and they are to be married very soon—perhaps when he comes to see us in the spring."

"That has not been arranged, or even discussed," Mary said hastily, "and we are not even formally engaged," but the Miss Adlams were looking at her with the first vague hints of interest. At least, the two younger were; Miss Regina was playing with one of her bracelets.

"I am _so_ fond of young Dr. Hart," Miss Philippa said. "We saw him quite often here in London while he was at St. Thomas's, and once or twice in Bath, and of course we were all at Locksby together just over Christmas. He is so very clever, is he not? And very amusing, in a quiet sort of way. I like him very much—I have spent hours talking with him, and never once grown bored."

"As have I," Mary managed, and Philippa and Cassandra gave silvery laughs; but inwardly, Mary was seized by an unexpected and unwelcome surge of jealousy. _She_ had not seen Robert since Rosamond's wedding nearly four years ago—and to think of Philippa Adlam sitting by Robert's side in this very music-room, or in the drawing room at the Adlams' Royal Crescent address in Bath, or beside some grand stone hearth at Locksby Hall! Suddenly she could not see anything but Philippa's glossy curls spilling over her pale shoulder, her pearly little teeth, her large blue eyes fanned by long full lashes. How dare this creature claim to be 'so fond' of Robert Hart! Mary swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very hot, and was glad that the tea-tray was brought in just then.

Of course there were other young ladies amongst Robert's acquaintance, she told herself sternly, while the others busied themselves with their tea, and plenty of those young ladies were probably very pretty; and of course it was only natural that Robert should spend time in the household of his twin sister, particularly when they were living in the same city. Her jealousy was unforgivable, and she ought to be ashamed of it. The Mary with whom Robert had fallen in love had never been so unfairly covetous of his attention, nor resentful when he gave it to others.

Yet she found she still could not bring herself to look at Miss Philippa with her accustomed composure.

Rosamond came in as they were drinking their tea, and apologized for having been so long about her correspondence; "I'm afraid I haven't been as scrupulous as I ought," she remarked good-naturedly, "and quite a pile of envelopes had amassed upon my desk." She lamented further that she had not been present to make the introductions between Mary and the Miss Adlams, as was her duty as lady of the house, but Miss Regina was quick to wave away her apologies.

"We have all been getting along very pleasantly," she assured the viscountess, "for we have found Miss Bennet quite as amiable as you promised us. I daresay we shall all be like sisters in no time at all, so there is no need to stand upon ceremony."

Mary rather doubted this, but Rosamond looked relieved.

Now that Lady Adlam had joined them, the Miss Adlams seemed to feel no further obligation to pretend interest in Miss Bennet. Mary was surprised to see that Lord Adlam's sisters clearly valued Rosamond's company, and seemed to bear her no ill will for being lower-born than themselves—for while Mary certainly treasured her friendship with the viscountess, she had quite expected these cultivated young pearls to turn up their noses at such a connection.

But if anything, they seemed eager to amuse and please their sister-in-law, and sought her opinion on a great many subjects. Juliet, too, was treated fondly; but the Miss Adlams seemed to have little desire to speak further with Mary, and every so often she caught one or another of them regarding her with something that was far too polite to be called distaste, but was certainly not fondness, nor interest.

_Well_, Mary thought crossly, _such fashionable creatures as these can have little intellectual depth to them, and so I need not concern myself with their good opinion._

Yet she was a little stymied when Miss Regina, in conversation with Juliet, made an allusion to a poem from the new edition of _Lyrical Ballads_, and again a few minutes later, when Miss Cassandra was heard to be humming a strain of Scarlatti.

Mary was relieved, therefore, when Rosamond at length asked Mary whether she should like to go for their promised walk in the park. She was further relieved when the Miss Adlams immediately disclaimed any desire to join them.

"You will catch cold, Rose," Miss Cassandra exclaimed, looking concerned.

"Nonsense," Rosamond laughed. "I have always been remarkably healthy; and besides, I have two physicians in my family, who might advise me in the event of any illness. You need have no fear for me, Cassandra."

"I cannot understand why so many people insist on taking their exercise out of doors even in such a miserable season," Philippa said, with an elegant shake of her head. "It is horrid enough being obliged to tread through snow and muck on one's way between places—I cannot imagine walking simply to _walk_."

"Then you are fortunate indeed that you have a carriage, which might save your shoes and skirt-hems," Rosamond replied brightly, "but for my part, I should like some exercise. It suits me ill, sitting indoors all day, no matter how miserable the weather."

"I think it most healthy for a lady to enjoy a good deal of activity," Mary agreed. "Not only does it nourish the body, but the spirit as well; there is a great deal to be said for the moral usefulness of regular communion with nature."

"I fear your walk through Hyde Park is to be less spiritually nourishing than you might expect," Regina said drily. "But I bid you joy of it, Miss Bennet."

Even Juliet could not be tempted from the warm fireside, and so it was only Mary and Rosamond that set out from Breezewood a few minutes later, Rosamond in a fine fur-trimmed pelisse of white wool with gold buttons down the bodice, and Mary in a pale gray wool cloak with a large hood, which had once belonged to Jane.

The day was, as Lord Adlam had promised, not so terribly cold; and indeed, Mary—country-lass that she was—enjoyed the fresh breath of the wind upon her face. The clouds had lifted a little, and the sun ducked carefully between them, casting glittering streaks of pale gold upon the fresh snow, which faded as the sun found a new cloud behind which to hide. Rosamond tucked Mary's arm companionably through her own, and smiled at her, and Mary began to feel as if perhaps she had been too unkind to the Miss Adlams; perhaps they were not so snobbish and artful as they seemed.

But, alone with her friend, her first words betrayed her. "Miss Philippa mentioned that Robert had spent a great deal of time here at Breezewood while he was in London."

"Indeed he did," Rosamond answered cheerfully, "though I am sure it was chiefly because he knew I could give him a better dinner than he could get for himself."

"And you were all at Locksby together for Christmastide?"

"Yes—all of the family. It was very pleasant. I believe Philippa quite fell in love with my little nieces and nephews; she is fond of children."

"How agreeable," Mary remarked, though she rather wanted to ask if it was only the nieces and nephews who had engendered such affection from Miss Philippa. But her pride and her better judgment thankfully prevented her from doing so, and they walked on for a moment in comfortable silence.

"I hope you shall not mind dining out tonight," Rosamond said at length. "We have been invited to the home of my friend Lady Chalcroft, and I promise you shall like her; her evenings are always very quiet and agreeable, and usually include a bit of music. She will probably invite you to perform."

Mary, thinking of her misstruck keys on the Edelmann, frowned self-consciously. "I doubt my skills are enough to impress the ears of London; but I shall not mind dining with her. You need have no fear, Rosamond," she added, speaking for the first time what had been in her mind since her arrival, "of upsetting me by accepting invitations. I admit that I am not of a particularly sociable temperament, but I am perfectly able to enjoy myself in dining rooms and drawing rooms."

"And ballrooms?" Rosamond said teasingly.

"Even ballrooms," Mary replied, with a smile, "as long as my presence there is of limited duration; but truly, Rosamond, I should not like you to feel as though you are imposing upon me. I know very well what it is to spend a Season in London—it is not as though I have come with the expectation of spending every evening by the fireside. Indeed _I_ feel rather as if I am imposing upon _you_. I know perfectly well that I am hardly the sort of young lady whom you can be delighted to introduce your friends here."

Rosamond stopped walking so suddenly that Mary, her arm still entwined with her friend's, was jerked to a halt. "Whatever do you mean?" the viscountess demanded, fixing her with something almost approaching a glare, which looked very strange indeed on her usually placid visage.

"Why," Mary answered, startled by Rosamond's sudden intensity, "only that I know myself to be reserved, and generally disagreeable, and not particularly interesting in society; and that is all very well in Meryton, where everybody knows me to be so, but here it is another matter altogether. I do not mind so much for myself, as I have no intention of heeding my mother's advice and mining London for connections and beaux. But I should be saddened to embarrass _you_."

Rosamond was still staring at her, and it was a long moment before she spoke. "Mary," she said at last, "I have an elder sister who ran away with a gentleman at the age of twenty-three, and an elder brother whose wit is very often outmatched by his volubility, and a younger sister who seems determined to find herself in some sort of entanglement by the Season's end—and being myself a woman of no family rank or fortune, who has found myself in a position far above that to which I have any right, and even after years of marriage is accustomed to hearing whispers behind my back—do you not think it may take more than a reticent friend to embarrass me?"

"I only meant—" Mary bit her lip.

"I did not invite you to London to improve my social standing, nor yours, I am sorry to say," Rosamond went on, as though Mary had not spoken. "Nor did I ask you here so that I may show you off in every house and gallery, like some sort of—of exoticism. I wanted you here because I missed you, and because I enjoy your company, and always have, even when you did not enjoy mine." She gave Mary a little grin, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. "I hope that I have not been unclear on that point."

Mary shook her head wordlessly.

"Then let us walk on; this is a conversation better had indoors, at any rate." Rosamond squeezed Mary's gloved hand with her own, then took her arm again, and they went forward along Curzon Street. Mary felt more than a little affected, and thought—not for the first time in her life—how unkindly she had underestimated her friend.

She was also rather selfishly glad to note that Rosamond, in naming the separate faults of herself and her siblings, had neglected to mention any mortifications of which Robert was the author. She was uncertain whether this was due to some twin loyalty or because Robert had not done anything unseemly in recent memory, but Mary knew she would not have liked to hear criticism of him just then.

It was another quarter of an hour before they reached Hyde Park, but Mary, being accustomed to walking almost every day between Netherfield and Longbourn, found the exercise refreshing. So, too, did Rosamond, who as they walked chatted easily, and pointed out a few places of interest along the route. The park was quiet, the day being still not quite fair enough to call the masses from their comfortable homes, though a few people traipsed the winding paths between the snow-dusted shrubberies and, in the distance, some figures skated with varying levels of expertise upon the frozen Serpentine. Rosamond was greeted with many a nod and smile as they walked, and returned them all, though Mary remembered what she had said about whispers behind her back, and wondered if any of these were the whisperers.

"This is rather as close as we come to Nature in London, save Hampstead Heath," Rosamond said, "but you are welcome to try and commune with it, if you like."

"I think it quite fine," Mary said, and she did. The glimpse which she had caught yesterday, riding past with Lord Adlam, had looked promising enough to her, and she was not disappointed. The park was certainly large, much larger than the village green in Meryton, with plenty of tall trees and shrubberies and flower-beds. In springtime, she imagined, it would be a very pretty, cheerful place indeed.

"I have spent many fine afternoons reading here in the late Season," Rosamond remarked, "or have tried to, anyway; the fine afternoons are the worst for reading, as everybody comes to the park to look at one another, and talk to each other, and it is impossible to have any privacy."

"I should imagine that is a fault of London generally," Mary said, then regretted it, for it sounded rather ungrateful. But Rosamond only gave a little shrug.

"It is indeed, but one grows accustomed to it. We only spend part of the year here, after all, and it is always the part during which one wants most to be sociable—winter and early spring, when the weather is disagreeable and you feel ever so gloomy, and want only to be surrounded by pleasant people. London is well enough for _that_. And then in the spring we go to Bath, where we spend as much time with my family as with our friends; and then the rest of the year is at Locksby, where it is perfectly tranquil, and the only guests are the ones you have invited yourself, for nobody can simply 'drop in on' Gloucestershire."

"I should like to visit Locksby," Mary said.

"I shall see to it that you do; if you are not sick to death of us all by summer, then you must come and stay with us. It is exactly the sort of place you would like—green, and quiet, and lovely. The grounds are the prettiest I have ever seen (though I may admit to some bias, for they are my own grounds), and I have taken particular charge of the gardens, since they have been rather neglected since Julian's mother died. They are not quite yet where I should like them, but they are not so far."

"Does it suit you, then," Mary asked, "being a viscountess?"

Rosamond bit her lip as she considered the question.

"What suits me," she replied, after a moment, "is being Julian's wife; _that_ is what I could not do without. I daresay I should be happy to be Lady Adlam even if it meant living in a hovel—though that is a flippant thing to say, I warrant, for I have never been obliged to live in a hovel and it seems unlikely that I ever should, and it is very callous and naïve, for a viscountess with an estate to talk of happiness in hovels."

"But you are happy," Mary said, smiling, "and that is what matters."

"Yes—very happy."

"I should never suspect _you_ of having made a mercenary marriage," Mary said. "Nor of the sort of greed which draws pleasure from money and titles."

"Do you call it greed? I suppose it is—but every desire is a sort of greed. My greed is only for love. Besides, I have never been in the sort of circumstances which would oblige me to marry for money. Some young ladies have not that good fortune, and I would not chasten them for doing what they must."

"I suppose your good fortune makes you charitable," said Mary, "as it ought."

"I hope it does. If not, what is its use?"

It seemed as if she would have said more, but at that moment she paused, and gave a bright smile of greeting to a young gentleman walking toward them. He seemed glad to have caught her notice, and hurried over.

"Your Lordship, what ever do you do out here in such gray weather?" Rosamond asked him, laughing.

"I might ask you the same, my dear Lady," was the reply. "Though that pelisse does look prodigious comfortable, upon my word."

"Mary," Rosamond turned to her, "I should like to introduce Lord Beacham. My lord, may I present Miss Mary Bennet of Longbourn House in Hertfordshire."

"I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet," his young lordship said, bowing low. Mary curtsied.

"Miss Bennet is a very dear friend of mine," Rosamond explained. "We met some time ago in Bath, where she and her mother and sister visited for a few months; and she was good enough to come stay with me here for the Season."

"Then I shall look forward to seeing you very often indeed, Miss Bennet," the gentleman pronounced gallantly. "After all, it seems I see Lady Adlam and her husband often enough for anyone's taste."

"Lord Beacham and my husband are thick as thieves," Rosamond said to Mary, with a very confidential tone. "Neither of them can accept an invitation without consulting the other; to see one or the other alone in a drawing room is to see a gentleman very forlorn indeed."

"Speaking of drawing rooms," Lord Beacham said, "shall we see you this evening at the Chalcrofts'? Mother is quite opposed to going, for she has an idea that it shall snow again tonight, but I am sure I can convince her if you will be there."

"If my sisters-in-law will be there, you mean," Rosamond corrected him, with a little laugh. "And they shall be, as shall I."

"I am glad to hear it," the gentleman said, offering each of them an arm. Rosamond accepted his right without hesitation, and Mary, after a brief moment, took his left. "May I escort you anywhere in particular?"

"You may escort us over the Serpentine Bridge, if you like," Rosamond replied, smiling at him. "We are only taking our exercise."

"Truly you are not yet a Town-woman, your Ladyship," Lord Beacham said, shaking his head in mock despair, "for you insist upon taking your exercise even when most other people stay at home, and what is the good of being out of doors, if not to gawk at everybody else?"

Rose laughed. "I fear you shall never make friends with Miss Bennet if you speak so," she warned teasingly.

"Shan't I? And why is that, Miss Bennet?"

"I find the pageantry of Town rather ostentatious," Mary answered. "I have never been particularly engrossed by the scandals and gossip of others. I find it all rather tiresome."

"There are many indeed who say such things," Lord Beacham said, "but I find that there are comparatively few who do in fact exert themselves to live by such a statement."

"Miss Bennet is one of those few," Rosamond said, "I assure you. In four years I have scarce heard a word of gossip pass her lips."

"Indeed! You are then a rare gem among women, Miss Bennet—or among people, I should say, for men are as often guilty of prattle as their wives and sisters. But what, then, do you talk about?"

His bemusement sounded so very sincere that Mary, in spite of herself, could not help but give a little laugh, though she felt it was rather unkind of her. "I talk about all sorts of things," she answered. "Music and literature, chiefly, for they are my greatest passions; but I also like to speak of morality and philosophy, and theology, and other topics along those lines. Indeed I find a truly good conversation is usually as edifying as it is immersing, and both parties come away the better for it, with a little more food for thought."

"I fear all of _our_ conversations are destined to be rather one-sided, then," the gentleman said, "for it sounds as though you are in a far better position to edify me, than I am to edify you."

Mary smiled politely, but did not disagree.

"I was earlier telling Miss Bennet about Lady Chalcroft's fondness for music," Rosamond interjected, "and I expressed the hope that our hostess might invite her to the pianoforte."

"Do you play, Miss Bennet?" Lord Beacham asked, turning to her with eager eyes.

"I do indeed."

"I am a lover of music myself," the gentleman remarked, "and take great pleasure in both playing it and hearing it played. I hope you may have the chance to exhibit your talents for us tonight."

"I should be glad to do so," Mary replied civilly, "though as I told Lady Adlam, I fear my talents may not be impressive enough for a London audience."

"Our audience is never difficult to impress," Lord Beacham answered, "at least not where the pianoforte is concerned; all the young ladies of _my_ acquaintance have long since eschewed it for the harp."

"The harp is considered more generally fashionable these days, I believe," Mary allowed, "but I have never taken it up myself." She did not add that this was because her parents could by no means afford to buy her a harp; instead, she thought suddenly of the tall gilded harp in Rosamond's music-room, and wondered to which elegant Miss Adlam that instrument belonged.

"Do you play duets, Miss Bennet?" Lord Beacham asked. "There is nothing I like so much as a good duet, but in this age of fashionable harpists, it is often difficult to find a partner. Lady Adlam and her fair sisters-in-law have indulged me on several occasions, but perhaps you and I might play together sometime."

"I have never played a duet," Mary admitted.

"Never? But then you must learn! It is so agreeable to play and sing with another person—do you sing?"

Mary thought of her past attempts, and grimaced. "Not well."

"Then I shall sing, and you shall play; at least for the first time. Later we shall learn how to play and sing together. Our friend here shall make a fine teacher for us, shall you not, your Ladyship?"

"I shall take you under my wing, if you wish it," Rosamond laughed, "though I am no Italian Master."

"No, but you have a prodigious good ear. I always make sure to sit by Lady Adlam when we meet at concerts," the gentleman said to Mary, grinning, "for she is always sure to have many opinions, and they are never ill-informed."

"Mary and I used to attend concerts quite often together in Bath," Rosamond told him. "You may sit by _her_ now, if you please; she is as learned as I am."

"Perhaps I shall do so, then," Lord Beacham agreed easily, "if Miss Bennet does not mind my company."

"I do not think I should mind, sir."

"You are very kind, Miss Bennet."

"Here we are at Park Lane," Rosamond broke in, "and here, I think, we shall take our leave of you, my Lord."

"It is only the anticipation of seeing you this evening, that saves my heart from breaking," said the gentleman. Rosamond laughed, and curtsied; Mary hurriedly followed her lead.

"Look forward to Lady Chalcroft's, then, for perhaps you will be privileged to hear my dear Mary play something lovely," Rosamond replied. "Goodbye, Lord Beacham, and thank you for walking with us."

"It was no trouble—and it was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet," Lord Beacham answered. "I shall see you tonight, and we may talk further about these duets of ours." He bowed low.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, sir," Mary said, with no small amount of awkwardness, for she had no experience with the gallantries of London gentlemen; but Rosamond rescued her by taking her arm and pulling her gently away, to cross Park Lane and join Curzon Street again.

* * *

They stopped for chocolate and cakes at Gunter's Tea Shop on the Square, which was, Rosamond assured her, hardly ever to be found so empty as it was that day—indeed there were only two other tables occupied, one by a pair of handsome young soldiers and one by a trio of very young ladies, who spent their time giggling in the soldiers' direction, and their lady companion, who spent her time frowning disapprovingly at her young charges. Rosamond and Mary settled at their own table, close to the window, where they could watch the sun struggle to emerge from its gray prison.

"Lord Beacham seems very amiable," Mary offered, once their chocolate had been served. Rosamond smiled.

"He is indeed; I like him very much. And it is very well that I should, you know, for his mother is determined to see him my brother-in-law, and she is a woman accustomed to having her own way."

"He is engaged to one of the Miss Adlams, then?" Mary asked, and a small, ashamed part of her suddenly hoped fervently that Philippa was the young lady in question. But Lady Adlam shook her head.

"Not engaged, no; but probably to become engaged, at least to hear Lady Beacham tell it. She was quite put out when Regina became engaged to Henry Leyes, though _I_ think it a very good match. It is fortunate for Lady Beacham that there are two more Miss Adlams from which she might select a daughter-in-law." Rosamond's tone was wry.

"Do _you_ think Lord Beacham will marry one of them?"

Her friend gave an elegant shrug. "I could not say. Lady Beacham is, as I said, very accustomed to having her way in all things; but Beacham is not always willing to be dictated to by her. And he was one of the few people of Julian's acquaintance who was kind to me from our first meeting; there were plenty others—still are plenty of others—who required a certain amount of convincing that I should not utterly disgrace the rank of viscountess." Her eyes flashed with unmistakable annoyance as she took a sip from her cup. "—But Beacham has never been anything but good to me, and to Robert when they have met, and so I cannot believe he shares his mother's conviction that men of his standing must marry a lady of rank. I think, if anything, he shall marry for love."

"Perhaps he will fall in love with Miss Philippa," Mary suggested. "That, I think, would be the ideal solution in such a matter: both he and his mother shall be satisfied, and presumably Miss Philippa as well; and Lord Adlam should surely be pleased to have such an intimate friend for a brother-in-law."

Rosamond grinned. "That is _one_ ideal solution, I suppose, and in your logical way, Mary, you have hit upon it. _My_ ideal solution should be that Beacham marries whomever he wishes to marry, and his mother learns that the world is not obligated to give her everything she desires."

"That, too, is a good solution," Mary admitted. "Mine was based upon equality of happiness to all parties involved, and yours upon what would best serve everybody, whether they should like it or not. I think you make a fine point that equality and fairness are not always the same thing."

"We are very wise, are we not?" Rosamond said teasingly. "I think, between the two of us, Mary, we could solve all the problems of the world."

"You jest," Mary replied earnestly, "but really I think there are very few problems that cannot be solved by careful consideration and honest, logical talk."

Rosamond laughed, and asked her how she was enjoying her chocolate and cake.

* * *

It was half past two when they climbed the steps of Breezewood. They were to depart for the Chalcrofts' within the hour, and the house was quietly busy, with the young ladies dressing in their rooms and their maids bustling to assist them. Mary had long been accustomed to sharing a maid with all her sisters; but it was something of a relief to have her ensemble chosen for her (this was a task she had never enjoyed, and she was quite able to ignore the maid's momentary expression of distress upon beholding the clothes she had brought with her), and to have someone else struggle to breathe life and fashion into her limp brown hair. In the end she thought she looked rather agreeable.

They all gathered in the vestibule, talking pleasantly, after Lord Adlam had sent for the carriage. The Miss Adlams, of course, were all striking in their evening-clothes; Juliet was charming and breathless in a gown that was plainly quite new; and nobody could have made a handsomer couple than Lord and Lady Adlam. Had Mary been the sort of young lady prone to self-consciousness of that sort, she would have dreaded entering a strange house with such a party, for she was certainly the plainest of all of them—but Mary knew she was no beauty. At any rate her nerves were focused not on her appearance, but on her limited social graces. For a moment she wished she were Kitty or Lizzie, or even Lydia—anybody who might look forward to a London evening-party full of strangers with excitement and pleasure—and not awkward, solitary Mary, who made poor conversation and was often unintentionally off-putting.

But she swallowed her fears as the carriage stopped before the stairs, and they all went out into the chill of the dimming afternoon.

The Chalcrofts' home was not particularly far, and it was a drive of only a quarter-hour or so, during which the lamps began to be lit in the stately houses they passed. The carriage at length pulled up before a tall building of red brick, the street in front of which was lined with other carriages of varying sizes, and before which two footmen stood at attention. Mary took a breath as the footmen leapt to open the carriage doors and help the ladies down. She felt Rosamond squeeze her arm softly as they were handed to the ground.

"It is only a small party, Mary," her friend said quietly in her ear, "and we shall not stay very late."

"Do not worry about me, Rosamond," Mary answered, trying to sound cheerful, though she knew her nerves crept into her tone. "I am too old to be afraid of a dinner-party."

Rosamond smiled at her, and moved forward to take her husband's arm.

They passed through the vestibule and into the hall of the house, where they met their host and hostess. Lady Chalcroft was a lady nearing her thirties, not particularly handsome, but with a pleasant, amiable countenance. Her husband was some ten or twelve years older, and had silvering hair that made him appear very distinguished. The lady exclaimed "Here is our dear Rose!" as Rosamond curtsied before them.

"Elizabeth," Rosamond replied warmly, and they embraced as their husbands clasped hands. "Allow me to introduce my younger sister, Miss Juliet Hart, and my particular friend Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire."

Mary and Juliet curtsied low, and Lady Chalcroft smiled at them.

"I should have known you for Rose's sister in an instant," she said to Juliet. "That hair, you know, and those lovely gray eyes. What a little beauty you are, my dear! You shall have all the gentlemen dancing attendance upon you this evening, to be sure."

Juliet flushed, and thanked her. Lady Chalcroft's attention turned to Mary.

"You are very welcome to our home, Miss Bennet," she said agreeably. "It always pleases me to meet new friends."

"Thank you, your Ladyship," Mary answered.

Then Lady Chalcroft was exclaiming over the Miss Adlams with motherly affection, and they were all swept into the large parlor where the other guests gathered.

It was an elegant assembly, as Mary had expected: an elegant assembly in an elegant parlor. It was quiet, as Rosamond had said it would be, but it was not a dull sort of silence—it was only a low murmur of conversation, here and there interjected with low laughter. It was also a small assembly, not more than a fifteen people including their own party, and while Mary had thought that a smaller assembly would be rather more comfortable than a large one, she now realized her mistake; for it was quite clear that all of these people were acquainted already, and in a more crowded room she might not have seemed so conspicuous. There was a group of fashionable younger ladies and gentlemen at each side of the room, and near the hearth sat three or four older people, who talked pleasantly amongst themselves.

Upon their entry, Miss Regina Adlam immediately adhered herself to the side of a pale, serious-looking gentleman, whom Mary took to be her betrothed. The other Miss Adlams were called to by one of the smaller groups, grouped appealingly upon a collection of chairs and settees, and they hastened to their friends' sides, pulling Juliet along with them. Rosamond shook her head fondly as she watched her sister go, before she and Lord Adlam were summoned by the other set.

Mary trailed awkwardly after her friend. Lord Adlam made the introductions, and the ladies and gentlemen greeted Mary politely. Lord Beacham was there, and gave her a smile of recognition.

"Hertfordshire!" said one gentleman, who had been introduced as a Mr. Rutledge. "I spent a few very happy summers there when I was a boy—some cousins of mine had a house near Abbots Langley. Is that close to your village?"

"Not particularly close," Mary replied. "It is rather far east of Meryton."

"Well, it was lovely country, and I am sure your Meryton must be charming indeed if it is anything like," Mr. Rutledge said cheerfully.

"And how do you find Town, Miss Bennet?" asked a Mrs. Kellaway. Mary glanced uncertainly at Rosamond, who only smiled.

"I arrived yesterday," she said hesitantly, "and so I fear I have not had enough time in which to make sufficient observation, and thus draw a conclusion."

This caused a certain amount of amusement in the company, and Mary flushed. Lord Adlam, seeing her discomfort, took pity on her.

"And so you must all be very kind to Miss Bennet tonight, so as to give her a most favorable impression," he said with mock sternness. The others laughed.

"Is this your first Season, my dear?" Mrs. Kellaway asked.

"Yes—my first time in London at all, since childhood."

"But how delightful!" cried a Lady Everard. "It is rare indeed these days that one meets a country-lass coming for her first Season in Town—it seems every young lady in London now was raised here, and has a most artful way about her. Miss Bennet, I declare you are quite refreshing."

Mary's face felt even hotter now, and she ducked her head. This, too, seemed to cause some merriment. Rosamond laid a gentle hand upon her wrist.

"I shall make sure Mary sees all the important sights, and attends all the important events, I assure you," she said to her friends. "I mean to give her a great many amusing stories to take back to Meryton. But now you must tell me, Lady Everard, how did you and your husband enjoy your time on the Continent? I have been waiting all day to ask you!"

"It was _quite_ invigorating," Lady Everard answered eagerly, leaning forward to elaborate; and Rosamond appeared so riveted that soon Mrs. Pierce's account of her travels, likely more stirring for the teller than the listeners, dominated the conversation. Mary said a silent prayer of thanks for Rosamond's tact.

She was therefore a little discomfited to find that she was not seated beside her friend at dinner, but was instead set between Mr. Rutledge on one side and Miss Adlam's beau on the other. (Leyes, she thought his name was.) Mr. Rutledge, a stocky man of about Lord Adlam's age, had already proved himself friendly enough; but the lady on his other side kept him engaged in conversation throughout the meal, leaving Mary to contend with Mr. Leyes.

"You and Miss Adlam are engaged, are you not?" she asked him, once the introductions had been made. He bowed his head in assent. "I had the pleasure of meeting her just this morning. She is very agreeable."

"She is indeed," Mr. Leyes replied, not taking his eyes from his meal, and he said nothing more.

Mary frowned into her soup. She could respect the gentleman's taciturnity; to some degree she shared it; but she had already felt quite uncomfortable and out-of-place, and Mr. Leyes' complete disinterest in her only cemented these feelings. For a moment she was seized with a wild, aching longing for Robert, with whom conversation had never been a struggle, and to whom she could say anything she pleased.

_If you were here, Robert_, she thought, _I should tell you how very glad I am to see your sister so happy, but that I am even more glad that _we_ shall never be obliged to attend London dinner-parties when we are married, and that I should like to dine every evening at home with you_.

Yet Robert was not there; there was only pale Mr. Leyes, who did not speak to her for the rest of the meal, and who left her to enjoy the very fine dinner with growing self-consciousness.

The gentlemen went into Lord Chalcroft's smoking-parlor after they dined, and the ladies retired to the parlor where they had sat before. Here Mary was glad to sit again beside Rosamond, amongst the same ladies she had met before.

But whether it was the absence of the gentlemen, or the effects of the wine they had drunk at dinner, or simply some natural habit of these particular ladies, this time everybody in their circle seemed quite eager to divulge confidences to each other and to Lady Adlam. The conversation swiftly turned to events that the ladies had all attended, and people that they all knew, and other matters in which Mary could have no say, and she began to feel quite as though she were being left out. Every now and again she glanced across the room, to where Juliet was sitting and laughing with the Miss Adlams and their friends, and she could not help feeling just a little envious of her young friend.

Rosamond's tact had not deserted her; but her friends were so numerous, and so set upon talking together as they usually did, that even Rosamond could not manage to include her friend in the conversation. At length Rosamond turned to Mary apologetically.

"This must be very dull for you, dear Mary," she said, "sitting with all the married ladies. Perhaps you would rather go sit with Julie and my sisters-in-law; they are sure to be more interesting than we. I should be happy to introduce you—they are all very agreeable, and should be glad to meet you."

At that moment a loud burst of merriment sounded from that side of the room. Mary swallowed. That did not sound like a company into which she could join any more naturally.

"It is quite all right," she answered.

"Then let us take a turn; I am grown rather drowsy, at any rate, and some exercise should do me good." Lady Adlam rose to her feet, and held out an arm for Mary to take.

"You do not have to abandon your friends for my sake," Mary protested, but Rosamond was quite insistent, and after a moment of hesitation, Mary rose to link their arms.

"I am afraid my friends have an unpleasant habit," Rosamond said, as they left the couches upon which they had been settled, "of forgetting that not everybody knows the people and the places that are so familiar to them. It is a failing, to be sure."

"A failing, perhaps, but a common one," Mary said.

"I found myself quite at a loss, when I first met them," Rosamond went on, "without any idea of what to say. It was only after meeting them several times in a row that I began to feel at all comfortable, and now they consider me quite one of their own, I suppose."

"I am sure your being a viscountess played some role in their acceptance of you," Mary said, and then immediately wished she could retract it. Rosamond only gave a little shrug.

"I am sure it did; that is the way of things in Town, after all. None of these people should ever have paid any attention to Miss Hart."

"But now Miss Hart sits among them quite naturally," Mary replied, nodding in Juliet's direction. Rosamond smiled.

"Yes; Miss Hart may now giggle with heiresses and flirt with baronets. I am glad to have given my sister some advantage, but I do wonder if perhaps things might have been...simpler...for her. If I had not married Julian, I mean."

Mary made no reply; she was not sure what reply to make.

It was only a few more minutes before the gentlemen came in, boisterous and amiable. Now the room was a little noisier than it had been before, and Lord Adlam came to walk with them.

"The Rutledges and Bodsons are to play a round or two of cards," he said to his wife, "and should like us to make a third pair. If Miss Bennet does not mind, of course," he added solicitously.

"Not at all," Mary assured them, already feeling a little guilty for having earlier distracted Rosamond from her friends. "I shall go sit with Juliet, and be quite merry."

Rosamond gave her a rather disbelieving look, but allowed herself to be led away by her husband.

Mary did as she had said she would, and went and sat by Juliet; but Miss Hart was too engaged with her new friends to afford Mary much more than a smile and a happy greeting. It was good, at least, Mary thought, that these well-bred young ladies seemed already so fond of Juliet—she wondered if that was due to Juliet's own charm, or her connection to the Adlams.

But sitting with the single ladies was as awkward as sitting with the married ones, for they all seemed already to be in each others' confidence, and the gentlemen present seemed far more interested in the London beauties than in plain, gawky Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire. Mary gave a great sigh, and again wished Robert were there—or even Kitty, who would have made her feel as natural and comfortable as she could like. How was it, she wondered, that some people could make new friends and acquaintances so easily, and others seemed to go utterly unnoticed and uncared for by the general population? Why had she not the gifts of charm and ease that so blessed her four sisters?

At that moment, the empty chair next to her was filled by a long, lean frame, and she looked up to see Lord Beacham smiling at her.

"Are you enjoying your evening, Miss Bennet?" he asked amiably.

"As much as is to be expected," she replied. "It is always a little queer to meet a large number of strangers."

"Indeed it is; but we are not _all_ strangers here. You know Miss Hart and the Adlams of course—and you and I met this morning, which in London terms means we are the most intimate of friends." He grinned at her.

"I am afraid I am not particularly prone to intimacy," she answered stiffly. "I have a rather reserved nature, which it seems does not lend itself well to London society."

"You seem intimate enough with Lady Adlam, and that shall do all right for the present. Come now, Miss Bennet; I should like to introduce you to my mother."

"Your mother?" Mary asked in disbelief.

"Of course—I told her about meeting you, and she wishes to be introduced. She is rather fond of Lady Adlam, you know, though you wouldn't expect her to be, and when I said that you were her Ladyship's _particular_ friend, she was all eagerness to make your acquaintance. Come now." He stood and offered her his arm. Mary, feeling a little dumbfounded, took it.

From Rosamond's description, she had expected Lady Beacham to be a woman of significantly advanced years, with handsome but querulous features, not unlike Lady Catherine de Bourgh (of whom Maria Lucas was _still_ rather terrified). Instead, the woman Lord Beacham approached, sitting with Lord and Lady Chalcroft near the hearth, was surprisingly youthful in appearance, with only a few faint streaks of gray in her dark upswept curls, and a very fine complexion. Unlike Lady Catherine, who had clearly once _been_ a beauty, Lady Beacham could still be considered a beauty—though not a young one. Mary estimated that she could not have been much older than forty.

"Well, Thomas," she said, glancing at her son, "and who is this?"

"This, mother, is the young pianist of whom I was telling you," Lord Beacham replied. "This is Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire. Miss Bennet, may I present my mother, Lady Florence Beacham."

Mary curtsied clumsily. When she rose, Lady Beacham was regarding her with interest.

"You are staying with the Adlams?" she said.

"I am."

"How agreeable," the lady said. "And you play upon the pianoforte?"

"I do, your ladyship."

A corner of Lady Beacham's mouth twitched. "I did not think many young women played upon the pianoforte these days. It seems that the harp is far more fashionable."

Mary reddened. "That may be, ma'am," she answered, "but I have always preferred the pianoforte."

Lady Beacham looked at her quite curiously, as though she had never heard such a thing before. "Lady Adlam has said that you are a very great reader," she said, after a moment.

"I should like to think I am; I enjoy reading almost above anything else." Mary was surprised to hear that Rosamond had ever mentioned her to her London friends.

"Yes," the lady said, "I can see that; you seemed quite uninterested in any of the people here this evening. I imagine you should rather be at home with a book just now. Not to say, of course, that your hospitality is wanting, Elizabeth," she added to Lady Chalcroft, who smiled and waved a dismissive hand.

Mary reddened further. "I—hope I did not appear impolite—"

"Of course not," Lady Beacham said languidly. "But it is true all the same, is it not?—Will you play for us, Miss Bennet?" she asked, changing tacks rather abruptly.

"I—"

"Come, Elizabeth," the lady said, turning to Lady Chalcroft. "It is your home, and your evening; you must invite Miss Bennet to play for us."

"I was just going to open the instrument," Lady Chalcroft said to Mary. "I should be glad to have you exhibit, Miss Bennet, if it pleases you."

Mary's heart pounded. She had not _really_ expected to play this evening, however much Rosamond had hinted, and the thought of doing so before these people—who had scarcely given her a moment of notice all evening, and were sure to be quite critical—warred with her pride. At length she responded,

"If you would like me to play, Lady Chalcroft, I am happy to do so."

Lady Chalcroft smiled, and went to open the pianoforte. Mary trailed behind her, forgetting as she did so to bid farewell to Lady Beacham.

"Are you going to play, Mary?" Juliet called, seeing Mary take her seat. "Rosamond, look, Mary is going to play for us!"

Rosamond looked up from her card game, and beamed at her from across the room. Juliet, too, seemed quite delighted, and leapt up to come stand beside the instrument as Mary shuffled through Lady Chalcroft's music, looking for something she recognized.

"I shall turn pages for you," the young lady said, "unless Lord Beacham would like to do so." She smiled at the young lord, who had come to stand beside them.

"You may turn them, Miss Hart; I have no intention of being of any use to anyone. I only come to watch."

Mary paid little attention to this conversation, for she had found a piece of Haydn that she knew quite well from her days in Bath, and placed it upon the rack. After a moment, in which the room suddenly seemed quite terrifyingly silent, she began.

The performance went much more smoothly than she had anticipated; it had been quite awhile since she had played for anyone besides herself or her family, or every so often a gathering of neighbors in Meryton. But she knew the piece well enough, and the audience was surprisingly appreciative; upon closure of the song, she was afforded a great deal of admiration from Lord Beacham and Juliet, and from several others as well.

Lady Chalcroft insisted that Rosamond be the next to play, and then Mrs. Kellaway; then the harp was brought out, and each of the Miss Adlams exhibited in turn, looking stunning indeed with their dark hair and bright eyes as they leant their pale cheeks becomingly against the tall instrument. Then Lord Beacham and Rosamond played a duet, and were pressed to play another, though Rosamond refused laughingly.

"I am afraid I shall fall asleep at the instrument," she declared, rising from the bench despite the earnest protests of her partner. "It is early enough in the Season that I may plead unfamiliarity with these late nights; my body still thinks it is at Locksby."

Mary, too, had been yawning, though she had found the musical portion of the evening to be quite enjoyable—certainly more so than anything else. _Her_ body, she supposed, still thought it was at Longbourn; the thought sent a surprising jolt of longing through her, which she endeavored to ignore.

And so she was pleased when they all bid their farewells, and bade good nights to everybody else, and made their way out into the cold night, where the Adlams' carriage was waiting.

* * *

Breezewood was quite still when they arrived, though the upper windows glowed dimly, suggesting that the servants were preparing their rooms. And indeed, when Mary had bid good-night to the rest of the household and entered her chamber, she found the fire crackling merrily, the bedclothes pulled back enticingly, and her own woolen night-gown laid out for her.

"Shall I help you undress, miss?" asked the maid, coming in from the dressing-room; and Mary agreed, rather too tired to wrestle with her own stays.

It was only the work of a moment before she was settling against the pillows, pulling the blankets over her, and leaning over to blow out the candle. The room plunged into a warm darkness, lit only by the shifting glow of the fire, which cast restless shadows upon the walls. Mary watched them for a few minutes, sleepily mesmerized; then, suddenly, the awkwardness of the evening rushed back to her, and she rolled over to bury her face in her pillow.

_Is this what all London is to be like?_ she thought, rather miserably. It was really no more than she had expected—she was quite aware of her own shortcomings as far as Society was concerned, however much Rosamond might protest—but suddenly the prospect of spending _months_ in such company, at such gatherings, seemed the most painful thing in the world. If only she could spend the Season here at Breezewood, with Rosamond and Juliet and, in the spring, Lizzie and Robert too; if only she were more like Kitty, and less like Mary! If only she could ever think of things to say! Why was she able to speak to some people so easily, and to others not at all?

_If you were here, Robert_, she thought, rather miserably, _I should tell you how much I enjoy making you laugh, and knowing that I may say anything to you, and you will understand it_.

This thought carried her off to sleep, where she was comforted by dreams of long days alone with her Robert, out in little Glastonbury, where nobody expected her to behave as though she were in London.


End file.
